DYli-5 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


'< 


'  Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  shown  ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent  token, 
That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone, 

Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word  be  spoken. 

•  Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 

At  your  warm  fireside,  when  the  lamps  are  lighted, 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest, 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited  1' 


IDYLLS  OF  THE   FIELD. 


FRANCIS    A.  KNIGHT, 

AUTHOR  OF    'BY   LEAFY  WAYS.' 


ILLUSTRATED   B\    E.     T.    COMPTON. 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS, 
1890. 


QMS  I 


r 


TO 
THOSE  WHO   HAVE  FOUND   PLEASURE  BY  '  LEAFY  WAYS  ' 

THESE    PAPERS, 
WHICH    FIRST   APPEARED    IN   THE   DAILY  NEWS, 


BY 

THE   AUTHOR. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


A  WINTRY  DAWN  ......          j 

WINTER  IN   THE   MARSHES  8 

FOOTPRINTS  IN  THE  SNOW              -  15 

A  SECRET  OF  THE  HILLS  -  -  -        22 

HERALDS  OF  THE  SPRING-  -  -  29 

HIS   ISLAND   HOME-               -  -  -        37 

CASTLES   IN   THE  AIR           -  44 

MEADOWS  OF  ASPHODEL    -               -  -  -  "        51 

WHEN   ALL  THE  WORLD   IS  YOUNG  -  -        59 

THE  POSTERN   GATE              -               -  -  -  66 

AT  THE  BEND  OF  THE   RIVER        •  -  -  76 

THEIR   FIRST  APPEARANCE               -  -        84 

THE  GIFT  OF  SONG              -              -  -  -  92 

A   ROBBER  STRONGHOLD     -                -  -  -  -      108 

A  SEA-BIRDS'  HAUNT        -           -  -  -  -    116 

FLOWER-DE-LUCE   -               .               -  -  -  -      I2O 

CHEDDAR  CLIFFS    -  -  -      125 

IN   THE   HEART  OF  THE   MOUNTAINS  -  -  -      1* 


Table,  of  Contents. 


PAGE 

THE    HEART   OF    THE    FOREST           -                                   -                 -  140 

A   NEW  FACE  AT  THE   DOOR             -                ...                .  147 

HIS   NATIVE   HEATH               -                                                                  -  !55 

A  WOODLAND   WALK             -                                                                  -  1 62 

WHEN  THE  WIND   BLOWETH   IN    FROM   THE  SEA                  -  169 

THE  BIRD  OF  YULE               .....  177 


r 


1ST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

CHURCH  AT  SOUTH  BRENT  -  Frontispiece 

BAMBOROUGH  CASTLE  -  I 

THE  POSTERN  AT  BAMBOROUGH  -  7 

INITIAL — ARMS  FROM  SEDGEMOOR  -                        -  8 

RUINS  OF  OLD  NORMAN  MILL,  WINSCOMBE         -  -  29 

INITIAL — DAFFODILS         -  51 

HADRIAN'S  VILLA — TIVOLI  -  59 

IN   RICKFORD   COMBE            -  67 

TINTERN    ABBEY      -  -  92 

THE   NORTH   END   OF   LUNDY            -  -  To  face  Il6 

THE    HOLLENTHAL    HUT       -  -  132 

THE   EIBSEE  -  140 

UNDER   SNOWDON   -  -  To  face'  155 

KYNANCE   COVE        -  -  169 

SWANS            •                                                  •  -  176 


A    WINTRY    DAWN. 


1T   is   the   hour  of  dawn.      A  soft, 
amber  glow  is  spreading  in  the  eastern 
sky^  above  a  long,  dark  bank  of  purple 
cloud.     The  waning  moon,  hung  like 
a  broken  ring  of  silver  high  in  heaven,  is  bright  against 
the  pallid  blue.     Across  the  dark  levels  of  the  sea  the 
'  wild  white  horses '  are  plunging  in  towards  the  sandy 

i 


2  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

shore  that  sweeps  its  winding  miles  far  down  the 
coast. 

Cold  and  dark  are  the  little  islets  whose  grim  rocks 
break  the  sky-line.  Clear  cut  above  the  nearest  stands 
out  St.  Cuthbert's  Tower,  whose  massive  masonry  has 
weathered  the  rude  blasts  01  ages.  Boldly,  too,  upon 
the  saffron  sky  rises  the  tall  shaft  of  the  famous  light- 
house that  for  fifty  years  has  been  associated  with  the 
story  of  a  woman's  daring  and  devotion.  There,  too, 
still  remain  the  old  fire  beacons  that  even  in  this 
century  threw  their  fitful  glare  across  the  waves. 

The  sands  of  yonder  bay  are  strewn  with  the  black 
skeletons  of  ships  •  round  those  cruel  reefs  a  hundred 
gallant  craft  lie  deep  beneath  the  sea. 

You  may  read  the  story  of  the  coast  among  the 
houses  of  the  hamlet.  Here  a  gate  is  hung  from  a 
broken  spar.  There  a  battered  figure-head  lies  by  the 
cottage  door.  Yonder  an  old  ship's  bell  hung  in  the 
entry  startles  the  visitor  with  its  sullen  clang,  as  if  in 
echo  of  the  sound  of  doom,  when  rough  billows  dashed 
the  iron  tongue  against  the  shuddering  metal.  < 

Cold  and  gloomy  is  the  stonework  of  the  great  grim 
fortress  that  here,  on  the  brink  of  the  northern  sea, 
rises  above  its  skirts  of  black  basalt,  calm  and  defiant 
still  as  in  the  days  when  its  garrison  had  naught  to 
fear  by  land  or  sea  save  treachery  within  the  gates. 
There  is  no  sign  of  life  about  its  towers  and  parapets, 
except  the  troop  of  daws  that,  with  sharp  and  eager 
clamour,  float  round  the  massive  keep,  or  alight  on 


A    Wintry  Dawn.  3 

the  corroded  guns  of  the  ancient  battery,/  or,  perched 
in  line  along  the  battlements,  plan  the  mischief  of  the 
morning. 

On  the  sands  below,  a  few  oyster-catchers  and  a 
redshank  or  two  wander  up  and  down  along  the  lines 
of  weed  that  are  left  as  the  tide  goes  out,  or  explore 
the  little  heaps  of  foam  that  are  lightly  tossed  this  way 
and  that  by  the  wind.  The  gulls  are  mostly  out  at 
sea,  or  scattered  over  the  fields  inland,  in  company 
with  curlews  and  plovers,  who  have  left  the  frozen 
sands  to  forage  in  the  furrows. 

Suddenly,  in  a  hollow  among  the  sandhills,  whose 
hoary  sedges  seem  still  whiter  in  this  pallid  light,  there 
is  a  stir  as  of  some  moving  animal.  There  is  a  hasty 
gallop  of  light  feet,  behind  a  ridge  of  sand,;  and  then 
— a  fox  leaps  lightly  down  upon  the  shore,  joined  half 
a  second  later  by  another,  following  in  hot  pursuit. 
Fine  fellows  they  are,  with  their  thick  brushes  tipped 
with  white,  and  with  a  tinge  of  grey  upon  their  winter 
coats.  One  behind  the  other  they  canter  easily  down 
to  the  edge  of  the  water  as  if  in  hopes  of  picking  up 
for  breakfast  some  wounded  teal  or  mallard  that  may 
have  drifted  in  wuth  the  tide.  They  leap  over  a  little 
promontory  of  rock,  and  disappear  behind  the  sand- 
hills. Here  they  come  again,  racing  along  side  by 
side.  Now  they  pause  upon  the  sand,  and  turn  and 
face  each  other,  and  leap,  and  dance,  and  snarl  play- 
fully, like  two  unthinking  cubs,  forgetful  altogether  of 
dignity  and  decorum.  Now  one  turns  and  dashes  off, 


4  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

followed  instantly  by  the  other,  and  round  and  round 
they  go,  now  in  line,  now  side  by  side,  as  full  of  fun 
and  as  intent  upon  their  game  as  if  there  were  no 
hounds  in  the  county,  and  a  view  halloa  was  a  thing 
forgotten.  But  alas  !  they  stop  short ;  they  hold  their 
heads  high  and  look  round  with  eager  suspicion. 
What  is  it  ?  Did  some  rabbit  watching  the  perform- 
ance from  his  burrow  involuntarily  give  a  stamp  of 
applause  ?  Alas  !  no,  it  is  the  figure  among  the  sand- 
hills. They  are  gone,  and  the  beach  once  more  is 
empty  and  deserted. 

Suddenly,  as  swift  as  thought,  along  the  jagged  edge 
of  yonder  purple  cloud  there  flashes  out  a  thin  line  of 
gold.  Over  it  hovers  a  soft  ethereal  fan  of  light  like 
the  herald  angel  of  the  dawn.  Broader  grows  the 
fringe  of  gold,  swiftly  running  left  and  right  along  the 
cloudy  heights,  and  reddening  as  it  goes.  Tiny  cloud- 
lets, unseen  before,  are  touched  with  glowing  fire,  and 
float  like  attendant  spirits  clad  in  burnished  gold.  It 
is  the  gold  of  Paradise.  No  ore  of  earthly  mine  ever 
shone  with  lustre  a  hundredth  part  so  fair. 

Now  the  broadening  glow  has  kindled  into  flame, 
glorious,  dazzling,  unsupportable.  Now  look  again. 
Round  and  fair  the  sun  has  risen  on  the  wakening 
world.  And  lo  !  the  cold, earth,  as  by  the  wand  of  a 
magician,  is  transfigured  by  its  light.  All  the  colour 
has  gone  out  of  the  cloudbank  that,  but  a  few 
moments  since,  stood  out  against  the  glowing  east  a 
rampart  as  solid  as  the  Alps.  It  is  there  still,  but 


A    Wintry  Dawn.  5 

the  eye  can  scarcely  trace  its  shadowy  outline  on  the 
sky. 

The  sunlight  brightens  the  low  basaltic  cliffs  of  the 
islands,  whitens  the  surf  that  beats  about  their  feet, 
glitters  on  the  lighthouse  windows  like  a  phantom  of 
their  midnight  glare. 

The  sea  that  was  so  cold  and  dark  is  shot  with 
green  and  purple,  while  the  wet  sand  shines  like  a  very 
opal.  Wandering  sea-birds  catch  the  light  upon  their 
shining  wings.  The  dark  plumage  of  a  solitary  cor- 
morant— as  still  as  if  carved  out  of  the  basalt  on  which 
he  stands,  shines  with  added  gloss  as  the  sunlight 
glances  on  his  dusky  wings.  Just  beyond  him  a  flock 
of  pintails — the  sea-pheasants  of  the  fishermen,  are 
making  for  the  shore,  diving  as  they  drift  along. 
Farther  out  a  fleet  of  eider  ducks  ride  lazily  on  the 
heaving  waves. 

There  are  few  handsomer  sea-fowl  than  the  drake 
eider,  but  his  mate  is  sober  enough  in  her  dress  of 
brown.  They  breed  yonder  on  the  Fame  Islands,  but 
this  is  their  southern  limit.  Shy  as  they  are  now,  they 
lose  their  wildness  altogether  in  the  breeding  season, 
as  if  the  touch  of  St.  Cuthbert's  kindly  hand  were  still 
a  shield  to  them  from  harm.  Other  ducks  too, 
widgeon,  and  mallard,  and  scaup,  sail  along  in  clouds 
far  out  at  sea ;  now  dark  against  the  sky,  now  brighten- 
ing like  gleams  of  silver  as  the  light  falls  upon  their 
upturned  wings. 

Along  the  rocks  inshore  there  flies  a  hooded  crow 


6  Idylls  of  Hit  Field. 

— a  strange-looking  bird  in  his  suit  of  black  and  grey, 
like  a  dress  of  motley.  He  is  a  winter  visitor  to  Eng- 
land for  the  most  part,  though  found  in  summer  in  the 
sister  kingdoms. 

Yonder  comes  a  long  line  of  peewits,  with  that 
strange  rhythmic  beat  of  wing  that  distinguishes  them 
afar  off  from  rooks  even  when  their  speech  or  colouring 
does  not  betray  them. 

Here  and  there  among  them  flies  a  curlew,  and, 
close  behind,  a  troop  of  golden  plovers,  uttering  at 
times  their  musical  call.  How  mournful,  in  the  hush 
of  night,  sounds  on  lonely  moors  that  plaintive  cry  ! 
A  note  of  terror,  too,  for  to  the  Northumbrian  peasant 
the  birds  are  no  other  than  the  wandering  spirits  of 
Jews  whose  impious  hands  were  laid  upon  our  Lord. 

And  now,  too,  the  great  fortress  wakens  into  life. 
Its  cold  stonework  glows  under  the  soft  fingers  of  the 
young  Aurora.  On  tower  and  turret  streams  the 
mellow  light  j  it  reddens  the  round  arch  of  the  postern, 
up  whose  time-worn  steps  the  bold  defenders  in  its  last 
blockade  retired  before  the  onset  of  the  Rose  of  York  ;p 
it  blazes  on  the  gilded  figures  of  the  dial,  glitters  on 
the  eastern  windows,  flashes  among  the  claymores  on 
the  armoury  wall,  *  Even  the  ancient  gun  that  tradition 
brought  from  a  Spanish  galleon,  that  in  the  flight  of 
the  Armada  went  to  wrack  out  there  among  the  island.-, 
glimmers  under  its  rusty  coat  as  the  sunshine  glances 
on  its  battered  metal. 

But  now  the  clock,  like  a  wakeful  sentinel,  proclaims 


A   Wintry  Dawn.  7 

the  hour.  It  is  a  mellow  note,  a  calm  and  peaceful 
sound;  and  yet  the  daws,  that  but  now  were  lining 
the  long  parapet,  suddenly  start  up  and  circle  round 
the  stately  keep,  scared  from  their  rest  by  the  familiar 
clang.  Does  something  in  its  tone  recall  that  other 
note  of  fear  that  from  the  self-same  throat  sounds  on 
wild  nights  to  call  the  lifeboat  crew  to  peril  their  lives 
upon  the  sea  ? 

It  is  the  hour  of  day.     Sounds  of  labour  have  long 
been  rising  from  the  peaceful  hamlet,  and 

'  From  the  hundred  chimneys  of  the  village, 
Like  the  Afreet  in  the  Arabian  story, 

Smoky  columns 
Tower  aloft  into  the  air  of  amber.' 


WINTER    IN    THE    MARSHES. 


OWHERE,  perhaps,  have 
autumn  rain  and  winter  frost 
left  heavier  traces  than  on 
the  wide  levels  of  the  turf 
moor.  These  meadows,  that  all 
the  summer  through  were  rich  and 
green,  purple  with  sheets  of  orchis, 
and  aflame  with  flower  de  luce,  and  dotted  over  with 
white  plumes  of  cotton  grass,  like  a  touch  of  early 
snow,  are  brown  and  dreary  wastes.  Cold  and  dismal 
are  the  belts  of  marsh-land.  Beaten  down  are  all  their 
tasselled  sedges,  while  a  few  forlorn  bulrushes  lift  gaunt 
and  ragged  heads  among  forests  of  their  withered 
leaves. 

In  the  patches  of  coppice,  spared  as  yet  by  the 


Winter  in  the  Marshes.  g 

Vandal  axe  of  the  woodman,  where  the  tangled  thickets 
shelter  many  a  shy  bird  that  shrinks  from  the  ways  of 
man,  where  the  boughs  in  summer  are  draped  with 
woodbine,  where  the  ground  is  dense  with  meadow- 
sweet and  marestail,  thick  with  clustering  bracken  and 
heavy  with  the  breath  of  flowers— a  few  dead  leaves 
rustle  among  tattered  boughs,  and  all  the  rest  is  bare. 
The  water-violet  lights  no  more  the  sullen  ditches  with 
its  peerless  bloom ;  closed  are  the  bright  blue  eyes  of 
the  forget-me-not ;  lost  is  all  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers. 

The  sedge-birds  that  wove  their  nests  among  the 
reeds  ;  the  warblers  that  hid  their  fragile  habitations 
in  the  shelter  of  the  grass,  have  vanished  with  the 
summer. 

There  are  a  few  tenants  still  that  linger  in  the 
marshes.  The  snipe  lies  close  among  the  withered 
sedge,  with  whose  streaks  of  brown  and  yellow  her 
pencilled  plumage  harmonizes  well ;  the  moorhen 
shows  now  and  then  her  red  helmet  as  she  steals  softly 
through  the  thickets.  The  magpie  comes  home  to 
roost  in  the  coppice.  The  crow  keeps  watch  over  the 
country  from  his  favourite  elm.  There  is  still  the 
robin's  cheery  strain ;  and  the  song-thrush  hails  the 
wintry  dawn  with  a  burst  of  music  that  has  all  his 
heart  in  it ;  but  in  the  dark  days  of  winter  the  birds 
make  little  sign. 

There  is  no  flush  of  purple  on  these  banks  of  ling, 
among  whose  tangled  roots  lie  deep  the  lizard  and  the 


WINTER    IN    THE    MARSHES. 


OWHERE,  perhaps,  have 
autumn  rain  and  winter  frost 
left  heavier  traces  than  on 
the  wide  levels  of  the  turf 
moor.  These  meadows,  that  all 
the  summer  through  were  rich  and 
green,  purple  with  sheets  of  orchis, 
and  aflame  with  flower  de  luce,  and  dotted  over  with 
white  plumes  of  cotton  grass,  like  a  touch  of  early 
snow,  are  brown  and  dreary  wastes.  Cold  and  dismal 
are  the  belts  of  marsh-land.  Beaten  down  are  all  their 
tasselled  sedges,  while  a  few  forlorn  bulrushes  lift  gaunt 
and  ragged  heads  among  forests  of  their  withered 
leaves. 

In  the  patches  of  coppice,  spared  as  yet  by  the 


Winter  in  the  Marshes.  g 

Vandal  axe  of  the  woodman,  where  the  tangled  thickets 
shelter  many  a  shy  bird  that  shrinks  from  the  ways  of 
man,  where  the  boughs  in  summer  are  draped  with 
woodbine,  where  the  ground  is  dense  with  meadow- 
sweet and  marestail,  thick  with  clustering  bracken  and 
heavy  with  the  breath  of  flowers— a  few  dead  leaves 
rustle  among  tattered  boughs,  and  all  the  rest  is  bare. 
The  water-violet  lights  no  more  the  sullen  ditches  with 
its  peerless  bloom ;  closed  are  the  bright  blue  eyes  of 
the  forget-me-not ;  lost  is  all  the  perfume  of  the 
flowers. 

The  sedge-birds  that  wove  their  nests  among  the 
reeds  ;  the  warblers  that  hid  their  fragile  habitations 
in  the  shelter  of  the  grass,  have  vanished  with  the 
summer. 

There  are  a  few  tenants  still  that  linger  in  the 
marshes.  The  snipe  lies  close  among  the  withered 
sedge,  with  whose  streaks  of  brown  and  yellow  her 
pencilled  plumage  harmonizes  well ;  the  moorhen 
shows  now  and  then  her  red  helmet  as  she  steals  softly 
through  the  thickets.  The  magpie  comes  home  to 
roost  in  the  coppice.  The  crow  keeps  watch  over  the 
country  from  his  favourite  elm.  There  is  still  the 
robin's  cheery  strain ;  and  the  song-thrush  hails  the 
wintry  dawn  with  a  burst  of  music  that  has  all  his 
heart  in  it ;  but  in  the  dark  days  of  winter  the  birds 
make  little  sign. 

There  is  no  flush  of  purple  on  these  banks  of  ling, 
among  whose  tangled  roots  lie  deep  the  lizard  and  the 


12  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

fugitives  sought  shelter  here  beneath  these  low-browed 
eaves,  too  often,  alas  !  in  vain. 

Still  the  plough  turns  up  heavy  bullets  and  corroded 
cannon-balls.  Still  on  many  a  cottage  wall  there  hang 
old  arms  that  played  a  part  in  that  fierce  struggle. 
Now  it  is  the  broadsword  of  a  Royal  trooper ;  now  the 
rusted  rapier  of  a  rebel  captain  ;  now  a  halberd  of 
elaborate  device  bent  with  a  last  desperate  blow  struck 
for  a  hopeless  cause.  Still  among  these  hamlets  linger 
traditions  of  the  fight ;  of  the  cruelties  of  the  inhuman 
Kirke,  of  the  judicial  infamy  of  the  unspeakable 
Jeffreys. 

Among  the  ditches  that  cross  the  scene  of  conflict, 
in  quiet  pools  screened  with  dark  alder-trees  and  set 
round  with  fringing  reeds,  the  teal  finds  safe  retreat 
Hard  by,  in  summer-time,  the  shrike  builds  in  a  way- 
side thorn,  and  impales  on  its  sharp  points  the  mice 
and  beetles  of  her  larder.  In  the  early  days  of  autumn 
quail  lie  close  among  the  stubble ;  and  even  a  clutch 
of  their  broadly-painted  eggs  is  not  an  unheard-of  find 
among  the  summer  clover. 

Here,  in  the  chill  dawns  of  winter,  long  lines  of 
mallard,  bearing  downward  from  their  swift  career, 
descend  with  a  great  rush  upon  the  water,  striking  up 
a  cloud  of  spray  that  hides  them  for  a  moment ;  or 
alighting  perchance  on  an  unexpected  sheet  of  ice, 
they  skim  far  along  the  glassy  surface  in  helpless  and 
comical  confusion. 

At  times  there   drifts  over  the  moor  a  wedge  of 


Winter  in  the  Marshes.  13 

clangorous  geese,  making  for  the  Channel,  whose 
brown  flood  just  shows  among  the  ragged  outlines  of 
the  sandhills  that  keep  back  the  Severn  Sea. 

And  on  the  long-disused  decoys,  or  on  the  quiet 
ponds  where  many  a  lusty  pike  was  netted  for  the 
Abbot's  table,  there  is  ever  seen  among  the  reeds  the 
white  forehead  of  the  coot,  or  the  restless  figure  of  the 
little  dabchick. 

Or  from  the  shore  a  water-rail  starts  up,  the  dark  red 
of  its  beak  and  legs  and  the  flicker  of  its  white  tail 
forming  welcome  points  of  relief  on  the  dull  brown  of 
the  reeds. 

On  the  shore  of  a  little  creek,  where  once  no  doubt 
the  barges  of  the  abbey  were  moored  alongside  the 
barn,  whose  ancient  gables  peer  through  green  waves 
of  ivy,  a  drowned  sheep  has  drifted  in,  and  a  troop  of 
crows  even  now  are  gathering  to  the  banquet. 

In  the  flooded  field  beyond,  the  edge  of  the  water 
is  lined  with  the  white  figures  of  a  flock  of  gulls ; 
others  are  paddling  leisurely  this  way  or  that,  riding 
high  on  the  cold  grey  ripples  after  the  manner  of  their 
race.  A  heron,  too,  among  them  stands  waiting 
soberly  for  any  plunder  that  the  wind  may  drift 
ashore. 

The  hour  grows  late ;  the  light  is  failing  fast.  The 
eye  can  trace  no  longer  the  outline  of  the  ancient  barn 
The  gnarled  figures  of  the  pollards  grow  dim  and 
ghostlike  in  the  gathering  dusk. 

Suddenly,  from  the  old  tower  that  from  the  hill-slope 


14  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

looks  down,  unseen  now  in  the  darkness,  although  the 
leafage  of  its  sheltering  elms  has  long  since  fallen 
away,  floats  the  faint  music  of  the  curfew  bell.  Through' 
a  rent  in  the  grey  clouds  the  moon  shines  out  with 
sudden  gleam.  There  is  a  touch  of  light  on  the  wet 
stems  of  the  willows;  a  cold  glitter  on  the  flooded 
fields;  a  touch  of  silver  on  the  distant  sea.  Then, 
dark  and  cold,  the  night  descends  upon  the  wintry 
landscape. 


FOOTPRINTS    ON    THE    SNOW. 


A  SNOWSTORM  in  town  is  no  doubt  regarded  for 
IJL  the  most  part  by  the  order-loving  citizen,  re- 
membering the  worries  that  follow  in  its  train,  with 
anything  but  friendly  eyes.  \  He  may  tolerate  it  as 
long  as  he  is  in  the  country.  He  may,  indeed,  look 
out  on  the  smooth  lawn  through  windows  that  never 
rattle  with  the  roar  of  London  with  something  of 
pleasure  in  its  sunlit  beauty.  He  may  even  cheer  his 
youngsters  on  to  face  with  bold  hearts  the  stinging 
missiles,  in  their  hot  conflict  in  the  trampled  snow, 
while  old  memories  stir  his  pulses  of  the  day  when  he, 
too,  stood  up  to  the  fire  of  the  enemy  as  coolly  as  the 
last  hero  at  Maiwand. 

1  But  he  turns  away  with  a  sigh,  knowing  that  in  the 
streets  of  the  town  the  snow  will  stop  the  traffic,  break 
down  the  wires,  and  turn  every  street  into  a  sea  of 
slush. 

In  town  the  snow  to  him  is  nothing  but  a  nuisance. 
But  in  the  open  country,  where  long  after  it  has  fallen 


1 6  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

it  lies  as  pure  and  stainless  as  the  raiment  of  the 
angels,  the  snow  is  the  crowning  glory  of  the  winter. 

Marvellous  is  the  skill  of  the  Frost  Spirit ;  wonder- 
ful the  foliage  of  the  forests  that  under  his  magical 
fingers  grow  nightly  on  the  frozen  panes ;  priceless 
the  pearls  he  strings  upon  the  spider's  web ;  exquisite 
the  lacework  with  which  he  fringes  grass,  and  fern, 
and  tree. 

But,  with  the  snow,  Nature  transfigures  all  the  land- 
scape. At  one  sweep  of  her  broad  brush  all  the 
clumsy  touches  with  which  man  has  marred  the  beauty 
of  the  world  are  effaced.  The  ordered  stiffness  of  the 
hedgerow,  the  even  line  of  the  highway,  are  softened 
down.  The  hills  are  rounded  to  a  riper  beauty.  The 
fields  lie  smooth,  and  white,  and  fair — an  unwritten 
page  waiting  as  for  the  bold  outlines  of  some  new 
design. 

What  a  wonder  is  there  in  its  very  fall !  when  all  the 
air  is  filled  with  snow,  carried  this  way  and  that,  never 
with  fixed  purpose,  never  falling  straight,  but  streaming 
down  from  the  silent  sky  that  everywhere  is  full  of 
whirling  snowflakes,  with  soft  resistless  touches  hush- 
ing half  the  noises  of  the  world. 

How  the  wind  drives  headlong  all  the  eddying 
crowd  !  Under  the  lee  of  the  hedgerow  filters  through 
a  powdery  stream  that  fills  the  roadway  with  the  mimic 
scenery  of  the  Alps.  The  hedges  are  covered  up,  the 
way-marks  disappear,  the  roads  are  blotted  out,  huge 
white  mounds  make  new  features  in  the  landscape. 


Footprints  on  the  Snow.  17 

Alas  !  then,  for  the  belated  shepherd  on  the  moor, 
seeking  vainly  to  recover  the  lost  track.  When  the 
wind  seems  like  some  cruel  demon,  buffeting,  blinding, 
maddening,  as  by  ways  rendered  unfamiliar  with  the 
drifts  he  plunges  along  helpless,  hopeless ;  fainter  and 
more  faint,  until  at  last  there  comes  the  awful  moment 
when  he  can  fight  no  longer,  and  he  sinks  powerless 
down,  down  into  the  soft  and  fatal  depths.  The  drift 
sweeps  over  him.  He  is  lost  as  surely  as  '  some  strong 
swimmer  in  his  agony'  who  sinks  in  mid- Atlantic 
among  the  boiling  surge. 

Wonderful,  too,  is  the  snow  that  falls  in  the  still 
weather,  fair  and  even;  that  with  more  deliberate 
touches,  brushed  by  no  rough  wind  away,  loads  with 
beauty  all  the  bending  trees.  Snow  that,  unseen  and 
unsuspected, 

..."  had  begun  in  the  gloaming, 

And  busily  all  the  night, 
Had  been  heaping  field  and  highway 

With  a  silence  deep  and  white." 
"  Every  fir,  and  pine,  and  hemlock, 

Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl ; 
And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm  tree 

Was  ridged  inch-deep  with  pearl." 

And  then  before  the  dawn  was  clear,  ere  yet  the  light 
of  sunrise  lent  a  rosy  flush  to  the  hills  and  hollows  of 
the  whitened  world,  how  the  creatures  of  the  wild  have 
hastened  to  trace  their  names  upon  the  glittering  sur- 
face ! 

Some  beasts  there  are  that  never  leave  a  footprint 

2 


1 8  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

in  the  snow.  All  the  cold-hearted  race  of  reptiles  are 
asleep.  The  badger  seldom  stirs  abroad  in  the  depth 
of  winter,  sleeping  out  the  barren  hours  among  the 
grass  and  fern  that  he  has  heaped  far  in  along  his 
winding  gallery. 

But  in  the  lane  that  wanders  along  the  hillside  you 
may  find  the  footmarks  of  a  score  of  creatures  that 
have  passed  unseen,  but  have  left  behind  them  traces 
that  betray  their  names  as  plainly  as  would  the  colour 
of  their  coats. 

These  broad  marks,  fringed  with  the  print  of  long 
claws — quite  different  from  this  dog-track  that  passes 
near,  wandering  dog-like  from  side  to  side  of  the  lane 
— tell  how  a  fox  went  by  here  in  the  dawn.  Look  how 
he  stopped  at  the  gate — a  familiar  one  no  doubt  to 
him,  recalling  many  a  successful  foray  among  the 
poultry  of  the  farm  up  yonder  on  the  hill.  It  was  not 
then,  we  may  be  sure,  that  a  rabbit  left  these  delicate 
footprints. 

Bolder  and  firmer  are  these  tracks  of  a  hare.  He 
leaves  three  marks  only  as  he  passes,  for  the  forefeet 
come  down  so  close  together  that  no  space  divides 
their  imprints.  What  a  leisurely  gallop  it  was !  No 
horn  to-day  to  hurry  his  pace ;  no  bay  of  dog  or  view 
halloa  quickened  his  pulses  as  he  ambled  across  the 
road  and  out  on  the  open  hill. 

Here  under  the  hedge  and  all  along  the  bank  a 
mouse  has  left  her  tiny  marks ;  now  and  then  her  tail 
has  drawn  a  fine  curve  that  makes  a  sort  of  flourish  to 


Footprints  on  the  Snow.  19 

her  name.  There  goes  a  squirrel  scampering  over  the 
snow  in  full  retreat  to  its  fastness  in  the  fir-trees  that 
cluster  about  the  old  British  earthworks  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill.  Many  a  dinner  he  and  his  clan  have  made 
among  the  cones,  as  the  gnawed  fragments  that  already 
strew  the  snow  remain  to  testify. 

A  flock  of  starlings  rise  from  the  farther  side  of  the 
field  as  the  squirrel  races  past.  Against  the  white 
background  the  plumage  of  the  birds  has  quite  a 
dingy  effect,  that  seems  to  harmonize  with  their  de- 
jected look. 

Days  like  these  tell  hard  upon  the  children  of  the  air. 
Deep  snow  means  starvation  to  thousands,  and  of  all 
the  imprints  made  by  hungry  foragers  none  are  so 
frequent  as  those  left  by  industrious  birds.  Here  have 
passed  a  party  of  tits,  whose  busy  feet  have  cleared  the 
snow  from  the  ground  in  hope  of  chance  provision 
underneath.  Silent  are  they  these  hard  days.  Even 
the  thrush  is  a-cold,  and  has  little  heart  for  the  noble 
minstrelsy  that  of  late  has  charmed  our  ears.  No- 
thing can  deter  the  robin,  he  is  singing  still ;  and  high 
up  in  the  blue  heaven  there  is  even  now  the  music  of 
a  lark.  Here,  too,  among  a  very  maze  of  light  feet, 
you  may  read  how  he  has  been  walking  on  the  snow. 
His  long  hind-claw  points  him  plainly  out  among  the 
common  crowd  of  finch  and  bunting. 

Here  a  ringdove  has  alighted ;  you  will  know  him 
by  the  rounded  pressure  of  his  cushioned  feet. 

The  rooks  have  left  the  print  of  their  great  claws  all 


20  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

over  the  field,  where  they  have  shovelled  the  snow 
away  with  their  strong  beaks  to  get  at  the  grubs,  not 
yet  too  safely  frozen  in  from  their  attack. 

Here  is  a  strange  foot-mark  :  the  track  of  no  common 
bird  is  this.  Two  toes  only  in  front  and  two  behind. 
Nothing  but  a  woodpecker  has  left  that  mark,  and 
from  its  small  size  it  was  not  the  more  familiar  green 
woodlander,  but  one  of  his  rarer  spotted  cousins, 
whose  shy  ways  and  inconspicuous  colouring  keep 
them  mostly  hidden  from  the  general  eye.  There  is 
no  record  that  one  was  ever  seen  along  this  lane  ;  but 
he  has  left  his  card  here,  plain  enough. 

There  is  the  call  of  a  partridge ;  and  yonder,  far  up 
the  slope,  there  is  a  line  of  tiny  figures  moving  over 
the  crest  of  the  hill,  calling  at  intervals  fainter  and 
more  faint  as  they  gain  the  hollow  on  the  farther 
side. 

Game  birds  make  strangely  different  tracks  upon 
the  snow.  The  hind-claw  both  of  the  pheasant  and 
the  partridge,  raised  as  it  is  above  the  level  of  the 
rest,  leaves  little  sign.  The  toes  of  the  latter,  partially 
united  by  a  membrane,  have  a  curious  effect  in  a  foot- 
print, almost  suggestive  of  a  swimming  bird. 

The  great  blackcock  has  a  heavier  foot.  His  hind- 
claw,  too,  is  down  almost  on  the  same  plane  with  the 
others ;  and  all  the  toes,  before  and  behind,  are  ser- 
rated at  the  edge — a  sort  of  comb  round  each  claw. 

The  snow  is  generally  too  soft  at  first  to  show  slight 
points  of  this  sort,  but  when  it  is  in  the  state  to  make 


Footprints  on  the  Snow.  21 

good  snowballs,  then,  in  the  lanes  on  the  edge  of  the 
coppice,  in  the  clearings  of  the  wood,  its  surface  be- 
comes as  the  pages  of  a  great  manuscript  covered  over 
with  these  picture  writings.  No  aimless  and  uncertain 
marks  are  these ;  no  Etruscan  tongue  to  which  no  man 
knows  the  key,  but  the  runes  of  the  shy  races  that 
have  their  dwelling  in  the  fields,  a  language  that  the 
lover  of  country  sights  and  sounds  has  early  learned  to 
read. 


A   SECRET    OF    THE    HILLS. 


A  COUNTRY  lane,  a  rough  and  narrow  way  that 
-/~~V  wanders  between  high  banks  overgrown  with 
briar  and  woodbine,  whose  opening  buds  give  promise 
of  returning  spring,  leads  up  to  a  ravine  that  runs  into 
the  heart  of  Mendip.  High  above  the  road  meet  the 
arms  of  stately  elms  that,  held  in  close  embrace  by 
clinging  ivy,  wear  a  wealth  of  borrowed  foliage  that 
might  suit  the  summer.  Green  and  fair,  too,  are  the 
ferns  that  fill  the  fissures  in  their  rifted  stems.  About 
their  knotted  roots  the  snowdrops  are  already  peering 
through  the  brown  beds  of  leaves  that  the  winds  have 
heaped  under  the  hedgerow. 

Half  hidden  by  the  orchards  farther  on,  where 
among  the  grey  branches  the  oxeye  sounds  at  intervals 
his  ringing  call,  are  the  houses  of  a  little  hamlet,  nest- 
ling close  under  the  steep  sides  of  the  hollow.  Their 
rugged  walls,  with  quaint  gable  windows  deep  set 
under  frowning  brows  of  thatch,  were  old  when  news 
of  the  Armada  passed  along  these  hills. 


A  Secret  of  the  Hills.  23 

Beyond  the  village  the  road  enters  the  ravine,  whose 
steep  sides  are  covered  thick  with  furze  and  bracken, 
through  which  bold  crags  of  limestone,  rough  with 
rowan  and  wayfaring-tree,  raise  their  rugged  heads. 

Along  one  side  of  the  valley  rises  a  wall  of  cliff,  re- 
lieved by  the  dark  foliage  of  stunted  yews  that  have 
twisted  their  tough  roots  into  the  crevices,  or  by  the 
now  leafless  branches  of  the  white  beam,  on  which 
linger  still  a  few  clusters  of  fruit  that  have  escaped  the 
keen  eyes  of  the  daws  that  nest  among  the  ledges. 
Here,  too,  the  bold  kestrel  finds  a  safe  retreat,  and 
from  her  eyrie  in  the  windy  steep  looks  down  upon 
the  few  signs  of  life  that  stir  below. 

It  is  indeed  a  quiet  spot.  Few  sounds  disturb  the 
stillness  beyond  the  scream  of  a  hawk,  the  cry  of  a 
solitary  ouzel,  or  the  chatter  of  a  troop  of  daws. 

It  is  hard  to  realize  how  brief  a  time  has  passed 
since  this  solitary  glen  was  a  scene  of  life  and  busy 
movement.  But  over  the  crest  of  the  cliff  the  ground 
is  seamed  and  broken  with  the  old  workings  of  the 
miners — of  the  men  who 

'poured  to  war  from  Mendip's  sunless  caves)' 

It  is  not  long,  reckoning  by  years,  since  Nature  drew 
her  green  veil  over  the  heaps  of  refuse  j  but  the  in- 
dustry that  barely  half  a  century  ago  employed  the 
country  side  is  now  no  more  than  a  tradition. 

Among  the  hills  there  linger  older  memories  than 
these.  The  rabbits  that  burrow  under  the  smooth 


24  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

turf  of  the  great  encampment  yonder,  whose  rampart 
of  loose  stones  stands  out  against  the  sky,  bring  up 
to  the  light  of  day  the  coins  and  pottery,  the  flints  and 
fibulae,  of  two  races  of  defenders. 

But  hidden  away  in  dark  recesses  in  this  lonely 
gorge  there  are  dim  records  that  go  back  to  the  un- 
certain mist  of  a  time  long  before  these  broad  hill-tops 
became  the  hunting-ground  of  Saxon  kings. 

Here,  close  at  hand,  under  a  great  archway  in  the 
living  rock,  a  cavernous  chamber  runs  deep  into  the 
hill.  Its  early  explorers  found  skeletons  beneath  the 
floor  in  such  numbers,  and  disposed  with  such  orderly 
arrangement,  as  to  show  that  the  cave  was  anciently  a 
place  of  burial.  Rude  flint  implements  discovered 
here  suggest  human  occupation,  but  of  far  earlier 
date  :  the  Cave  Men  were  not  so  careful  in  the  disposal 
of  their  dead.  But  whoever  they  were  whose  bones 
were  laid  in  this  dark  chamber  under  the  hill,  no  clue 
to  their  history  remains.  Their  skeletons  have  long 
since  crumbled  into  dust.  Nothing  now  is  left  but  a 
dim  and  dateless  memory. 

Farther  up  the  ravine,  screened  from  sight  by  the 
contour  of  the  hill,  is  another  cave — a  retreat,  perhaps, 
of  the  still  earlier  race.  There  is  a  hollow  round  the 
entrance  that  suggests  the  hand  of  man,  while  the 
great  blocks  of  limestone  that  with  rugged  brows  pro- 
tect the  low  dark  archway  are  themselves  almost  like 
the  work  of  some  Cyclopean  architect.  The  deep 
wrinkles  that  frost  and  rain  have  graven  in  the  rock 


A  Secret  of  the  Hills.  25 

are  green  with  ferns;  the  ivy  and  the  briar  hang 
graceful  sprays  over  the  entrance. 

The  cave  is  higher  when  the  threshold  is  well 
passed,  and  soon  the  glimmer  of  the  candles  lights  up 
a  vaulted  roof,  fretted  and  ribbed  and  sculptured  by 
the  slow  tools  of  unnumbered  ages.  Here  on  the  soft 
black  earth  that  covers  all  the  floor  of  this  the  first 
great  chamber,  badgers  have  left  their  footprints,  and 
perhaps  even  now  are  watching  anxiously  unseen. 
Farther  on,  the  roof  is  dark  with  clusters  of  bats  that, 
folded  close  within  their  leathern  wings,  hang  motion- 
less, all  unconscious  of  intrusion.  By  what  strange 
faculty  do  they  mark  the  time  and  know  the  hour  for 
sallying  out  into  the  twilight  ? 

The  stalactites  that  once  in  thousands  glittered  from 
the  rock  overhead  have  long  been  broken  away,  but 
the  massive  sculpture  on  the  walls  defies  the  puny 
hammer  of  the  spoiler,  and  all  the  sides  of  the  cavern 
are  hung  with  strange  and  graceful  figures  moulded  by 
the  dripping  water. 

It  is  by  a  very  labyrinth  of  passages  that  you  reach 
the  end  of  the  cave.  The  first  descent  is  by  a  shaft 
that  yawns  like  a  well  in  the  rocky  floor.  It  is  the 
Giant's  Stairs.  There  is  no  need  of  a  rope.  Even 
ladies  have  ventured  down  that  dark  abyss.  When 
you  have  stuck  a  candle  against  the  rock,  look  back  a 
moment  to  watch  the  lights  of  your  companions 
twinkling  down  the  steep  slope  of  the  chamber  and 
throwing  fantastic  shadows  on  the  rocky  wall.  Now 


26  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

slide  gently  down ;  there  is  good  footing  a  few  feet 
below.  Thence  through  winding  passages  you  make 
your  slow  way. 

Now  the  narrow  gallery  is  too  low  to  stand  upright 
in  ;  now  the  cavern  widens  out  into  a  spacious  chamber 
hung  with  delicate  draperies  of  stone.  Then  by  a  last 
descent,  so  steep  and  difficult  that  it  was  christened 
long  ago  the  Chimney,  you  slip  cautiously  down, 
steadying  yourself  with  knee  and  elbow,  into  the  great 
hall  at  the  end  of  the  cavern. 

Here  plunges  through  a  narrow  rift  a  stream  that 
has  worn  its  way  into  the  very  heart  of  the  hill  Here 
in  rude  lettering,  half  effaced  by  damp,  explorers  have 
left  their  names,  sometimes  with  a  friendly  caution  as 
to  the  right  turning,  for,  in  the  multitude  of  branching 
galleries,  to  lose  the  way  is  easy. 

It  is  not  a  pleasant  experience  when  an  uneasy  sense 
of  something  wrong  breaks  on  the  minds  of  a  party  of 
cave-hunters.  When  remembered  marks  are  missed, 
and  a  familiar  passage  is  looked  for  in  vain,  men  try 
to  look  unconcerned,  but  the  dull  candles  light  up  a 
circle  of  serious  faces. 

Gloomy  traditions  start  swiftly  into  memory,  of  men, 
lost  in  this  very  cave,  who  perished  miserably  in  the 
dark  ;  of  the  suspense  of  anxious  friends,  of  the  dismal 
duty  of  the  search  party. 

Why  does  a  bat  choose  this  particular  moment  to 
brush  past  like  a  phantom,  on  its  noiseless  wings  ? 

There  is  a  moment  of  ominous  silence,  broken  only 


A  Secret  of  the  Hills.  27 

by  the  ceaseless  drip  of  water  and  the  far-off  plash  of 
the  stream. 

All  the  lights  are  put  out  except  that  carried  by  the 
leader  of  the  party,  who  goes  back  alone  to  try  and 
recover  the  lost  clue.  The  others  watch  his  light 
grow  fainter  and  then  vanish,  and  hear  his  footsteps 
die  away  along  the  gallery. 

After  a  few  minutes,  which  to  their  troubled  souls 
seem  ages,  conies  a  shout  that  puts  new  heart  into  the 
listeners,  and  calls  back  an  answering  cheer.  Candles 
are  relit,  a  few  steps  are  retraced,  and  all  is  well. 

By-and-by  appears  in  the  distance  a  faint  glimmer, 
like  a  star,  far  on  in  front  It  is  the  light  of  day, 
doubly  welcome  after  those  brief  moments  of  sus- 
pense. 

The  old  inhabitants,  probably,  seldom  penetrated  far 
into  the  interior.  It  is  here,  close  to  the  entrance, 
that  we  must  look  for  their  traces.  The  cave  men 
have  left  but  little  from  which  we  can  picture  their 
way  of  life.  In  few  but  graphic  touches  is  written  the 
story  of  the  race.  About  the  red  earth  of  their  hearths 
we  find  no  shards  of  pottery,  no  coloured  beads,  no 
weapons  but  the  rudest  instruments  of  flint. 

There  is  nothing  left  of  them  but  relics  of  the  chase, 
a  human  skull  here  and  there,  rude  carvings  traced 
with  knives  of  flint  on  cave  bear-tooth  or  mammoth- 
tusk.  They  are  a  vanished  race ;  there  is  no  people 
that  can  call  them  kin. 

The  barrows  that   crown  the  hill-crest  up  yonder 


28  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

were  raised  over  the  dust  of  heroes,  who  sought  in 
vain  to  bar  the  path  of  the  legions,  or  fell  in  battle  with 
Ceawlin.  Their  story,  too,  remains  untold  ;  but  they 
are  men  of  yesterday  compared  with  the  wild  figures 
that  crouched  round  camp-fires  lit  among  these  rocks, 
who  stalked  the  mammoth  in  the  hollows  of  these 
ancient  hills. 


HERALDS    OF    THE    SPRING. 


the  darkest  days 

of  winter,    when 

the    fields    are 

brown  and  bare ;    when  the   woods   are   emptied  of 

their    beauty,   and   all    the    world   seems   dead;    he 


30  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

who  will  may  read  how  life  even  then  is  stirring  in  the 
leaves ;  how  the  great  heart  of  Nature  never  is  at  rest ; 
how  plain  to  feel,  in  all  the  stillness,  is  the  beating 
of  her  mighty  pulse.  For  even  when  the  few  last 
leaves  are  floating  down  through  the  chill  December 
air  their  very  death  is  a  fluttering  of  life.  The  faded 
leaf  is  hurried  to  its  fall  by  the  swelling  of  the  bud 
that  will  broaden  into  beauty  in  the  spring. 

Even  when  the  days  are  shortest  the  willows  tinge 
their  golden  branches  with  a  purple  flush,  and  the 
sprays  of  honeysuckle  are  studded  with  tufts  of  green. 
And  when  once  the  days  begin  to  lengthen  and 
February  has  begun,  we  find  in  lane  and  woodland 
the  light  footprints  of  the  spring. 

It  is  true  they  are  but  light.  There  is  no  denying 
that  there  are  evil  days  in  store ;  weeks  of  sullen  skies 
and  bitter  weather,  months  of  searching,  biting,  cruel 
wind.  Returning  winter  may  even  cover  all  with 
snow. 

But  still  with  calm,  unfaltering  finger  Nature  writes 
on  bank  and  hedgerow,  day  by  day  in  plainer  letters, 
the  promise  of  the  wakening  of  the  world, 

Everywhere  the  arum  thrusts  through  the  brown 
earth  its  folded  green,  and  the  ground  ivy  pushes  out 
its  long  red  stems  as  if  feeling  for  the  light.  On 
upland  fields,  where  the  plough  lies  idle  in  the  last 
furrow  of  the  stubborn  soil,  the  coltsfoot  scatters 
broadcast  its  bright,  leafless  flowers.  In  sheltered 
hollows,  where  the  untrimmed  hedgerows  lean  over 


Heralds  of  the  Spring.  31 

with  protecting  arms,  primroses  have  looked  out  with 
sweet  pale  faces  all  the  winter  through.  A  tiny  speed- 
well here  and  there  opens  bright  blue  eyes  to  meet 
the  sun,  timid  yet,  and  tearful,  and  soon  discouraged, 
but  gaining  strength  and  beauty  in  the  lengthening 
sunshine. 

"  The  cones  of  the  great  alder  by  the  weir,  that  all 
the  year  have  hung  like  sad  coloured  beads  from 
every  spray,  are  relieved  by  the  fresher  tint  of  opening 
catkins.  The  wash  of  the  water  has  worn  the  earth 
away  from  the  roots  of  the  old  tree  and  made  a  very 
jungle  among  the  tangled  fibres.  Here  the  water-rail 
finds  cover  when  the  reeds  are  thinned  and  beaten 
down.  Hither  the  moorhen  hastens  to  find  sanctuary, 
skilfully  threading  the  winding  channels  of  the  weed ; 
and  then  scrambling  ashore,  steals  far  in  under  the 
bank  until  the  steps  have  died  away  along  the  lane. 

No  winter  yet  was  known  to  freeze  this  pool.  The 
springs  that  boil  up  through  the  sand  far  down  in  that 
great  hollow,  sending  up  now  and  then  a  stream  of 
silvery  bubbles,  are  beyond  the  reach  of  frost,  and 
here  in  the  hardest  weather  the  mallard  can  always 
find  a  stretch  of  open  water. 

~~On  the  soft  sands  of  the  shallow  streamlet  farther 
down  a  whole  tribe  of  water-loving  creatures  write  in 
clear  symbols  their  unlettered  names.  These  tiny 
round  footprints,  neatly  set  in  pairs,  are  the  record  of 
the  vole.  Those  broad  angular  imprints  are  the 
cipher  of  the  water-hen.  This  deep,  deliberate  stamp 


32  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

is  the  seal  of  the  heron,  and  everywhere  across  the 
yielding  surface  the  slender  feet  of  the  wagtail  have 
run  in  endless  mazes.  It  is  their  special  hunting- 
ground  ;  year  by  year  they  hide  their  nest  hard  by  in 
the  ruins  of  the  mill. 

It  is  long  since  the  plash  of  the  wheel  and  the  hum 
of  rude  machinery  disturbed  the  silence  of  these  quiet 
meadows.  Eight  long  ages  its  pleasant  murmur 
mingled  with  the  music  of  the  stream.  We  read  of  it 
in  Domesday  Book.  The  record  is  but  brief:  'There 
is  a  mill  paying  five  shillings.' 

The  village  mill  was  a  point  of  special  notice  in 
the  old  Norman  survey.  Scattered  up  and  down  its 
quaintly-written  pages,  together  with  the  list  of  boors 
and  slaves  and  villeins,  of  ploughs  and  vinelands,  of 
forges  and  of  fishponds,  we  find  careful  statements  of 
the  tax  the  miller  paid. 

We  meet  with  varying  assessments,  from  twenty 
shillings  down  to  sixpence.  Sometimes  two  adjacent 
hamlets  joined  at  a  mill.  In  one  case  'two  parts 
paying  three  shillings '  belong  to  one,  and  '  a  third 
part  paying  two  shillings'  to  another  village.  On 
another  page,  '  half  a  mill '  pays  seven  shillings  and 
sixpence,  the  other  '  half '  nine  shillings.  In  one 
instance  half  a  mill  is  assessed  at  five  shillings, 
but  of  the  second  half  there  is  no  trace  discover- 
able. 

It  is  not  many  years  since  the  broken  wheel  was 
still  lying  in  the  ruins,  but  of  the  building  itself  little 


Heralds  of  the  Spring.  33 

trace  remains.  There  is  still  the  low  archway  under 
which  flashed  the  water  from  the  sluice.  Still  the 
stream  pours  down  into  the  hollow  where  turned  the 
ancient  wheel,  ever  moistening  with  its  scattered 
spray  the  bright  green  moss  that  clings  about  every 
stone  of  the  loosened  masonry,  and  the  long  fronds 
of  hartstongue  fringing  all  the  crevices  of  the  crumb- 
ling walls.  Ages'  growth  of  ivy  drapes  the  remnant 
of  a  gable ;  tall  elder-trees  are  rooted  in  the 
stones. 

Along  the  stream  that  wanders  away  beyond  the 
ruin  the  opening  buds  of  the  saxifrage  are  beginning 
to  tinge  the  low  green  banks  with  their  golden  mist. 
Farther  on,  the  snowdrops  nestle  under  the  bushes, 
growing  tall  and  strong  in  the  shelter  of  an  ancient 
tree,  or  looking  down  on  their  white  bells  mirrored 
in  the  loitering  stream.  Among  the  hazels  that  lean 
over  the  brook  swing  the  eager  titmice — their  clear 
and  ringing  notes  the  very  bugles  of  advancing  spring 
— and  scatter  from  the  fleecy  catkins  little  showers  of 
gold. 

Even  amid  the  stir  of  busy  streets,  the  starling  on 
the  gable  feels  through  his  dusky  coat  a  glow  that 
makes  him  suddenly  break  off  his  odd  and  tuneless 
chatter  to  copy  the  pipe  of  the  wryneck  still  far  off  in 
southern  lands,  or  startle  the  listener  with  a  stave  of 
song  so  true  that  he  looks  up  as  half  expecting,  even 
now,  to  see  a  swallow  'swim  into  his  ken.' 

The  robin  in  the  wayside  elm,  a  faithful  minstrel 

3 


34  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

who  has  sung  to  us  through  the  dark  December  days, 
now  with  blither  strain,  clearer  and  more  confident 
as  the  days  draw  near  that  bring  a  fuller  crimson  to 
his  breast,  pours  out  his  heart  in  bursts  of  happy 
song. 

But  chief  of  all,  now,  while  still  the  year  is  young, 
sweetest  perhaps  before  the  brightening  dawn,  the 
song-thrush  leads  the  chorus.  No  singer  can  surpass 
him.  Not  the  blackbird,  for  all  the  full  melody  of 
his  dulcet  pipe ;  he  is  too  brief,  too  wild,  too  careless 
altogether.  Not  even  the  skylark,  for  all  the  floods  of 
delicious  music  that  from  his  hover  in  the  quiet  sky 
he  pours  down  upon  the  listening  world.  Nor  can 
the  very  nightingale's  brief  months  of  music  rank 
higher  in  our  favour  than  the  long,  generous  service 
of  the  faithful  thrush. 

He  is  ever  a  sweet  musician;  but  at  times  there 
sounds  among  the  crowd  a  burst  of  song  from  one 
more  tuneful  than  his  fellows  that  stays  the  passing 
steps  to  listen,  and  year  by  year  draws  new  lingerers 
about  his  haunt. 

In  a  quiet  corner  of  the  wood  yonder,  a  great  singer 
keeps  his  court. 

Cross  the  soft  ground  beneath  the  trees,  where  the 
brown  earth  is  breaking  into  points  of  green,  and 
where  patches  of  bright  moss  hush  the  sound  ot 
passing  footsteps.  Follow  the  faint  path  that  winds 
among  the  trees,  plainer  now  for  the  rich  heaps  turned 
up  by  some  restless  mole;  rustle  among  the  deep 


Heralds  of  the  Spring.  35 

autumn  leaves,  still  glorious  in  their  ruin,  where,  not 
yet  hidden  in  the  green  tide  that  ere  long  will  rise 
among  the  trees,  lie  broken  boughs  torn  away  by  the 
winds  of  winter  from  the  great  roof  overhead,  and 
now  wrapped  about  by  the  soft  grey-green  of  delicate 
lichens,  like  rare  growths  of  coral,  whose  exquisite 
touch  renders  the  fallen  monarch  of  the  forest  still 
more  beautiful  in  death. 

Now  a  sudden  gleam  of  sunshine,  breaking  through 
the  clouds  that  bar  the  saffron  sky,  brightens  the  grass 
that  skirts  the  wood.  Now  it  lingers  on  the  stems 
of  the  great  oaks  that  but  a  moment  since  stood 
cold,  and  bare,  and  sullen.  It  leaves  them  glowing 
with  its  soft  caress,  catches  a  hundred  points  of 
scattered  light  on  polished  beech-bark  and  on  shining 
ivy-leaf,  and  transfigures  all  the  woodland  with  its 
glory. 

And  then,  in  the  corner  at  the  foot  of  the  slope 
where  the  wild  branches  of  the  clustering  elms  make 
ever  a  half-twilight  under  the  brightest  noon ;  where 
wandering  sprays  of  briar  and  tangled  trails  of  wood- 
bine canopy  the  way,  the  chief  of  singers  answers  to 
the  call. 

High  up  in  the  branches  of  the  beech,  that  among 
the  ranks  of  elm-trees  stands  alone,  its  dry  leaves 
reddening  all  the  woodland  round,  the  thrush  is 
sitting,  a  mere  dark  speck  against  the  glowing  west. 
But  from  his  swelling  throat  there  falls  such  a  flood 
of  music,  stealing  up  the  slope,  reaching  far  among 

3—2 


36  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

the  tall  pillars  of  the  glade,  through  the  solemn  still- 
ness of  the  woodland,  at  the  quiet  hour — 

Just  ere  the  brooding  Twilight 

Unfolds  her  starry  wings, 
And  worn  hearts  bless  with  tenderness 

The  peace  that  evetide  brings — 

as  proves  him  sovereign  by  right  divine. 


HIS    ISLAND    HOME. 

A  STORMY  day  inland  is  to  the  birds  for  the 
most  part  a  season  of  discomfort.  It  drives 
them  from  their  haunts  in  the  open  to  the  covert  of 
the  hedgerow,  to  the  shelter  of  the  ivy,  or  to  holes 
beneath  the  eaves. 

The  missel-thrush,  indeed — a  bold-hearted  bird  that 
will  buffet  the  hawk  who  ventures  too  near  his  nest, 
and  drive  off  a  marauding  crow — cares  little  for  the 
weather.  He  really  seems  to  revel  in  the  storm,  and 
his  wild  song  rises  all  the  higher  when  a  fierce  wind 
is  blowing  and  the  rain  drives  in  sheets  across  the 
dreary  landscape. 

But  stormy  weather  by  the  sea  is  quite  another 
thing.  Days  like  these  bring  in  the  gulls  and  divers 
from  the  open ;  for  although  seabirds  seem  to  take 
pleasure  in  fighting  with  the  wind,  and  to  be  most 
in  their  element  when  they  face  the  wild  weather,  yet 
there  are  times  when  even  they  are  forced  to  take 
refuge  by  the  shore ;  when  they  even  fly  far  inland  to 
peaceful  havens  on  quiet  lakes  and  rivers. 


38  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

Farther  than  that  they  cannot  go :  no  tree  can 
shelter  them ;  their  feet  have  no  power  to  grasp  the 
branches.  They  must  fight  it  out,  and  face  the  blast, 
however  hard  it  blows. 

Life  by  the  shore  is  at  all  times  more  variable  than 
among  the  fields  and  lanes.  In  the  country  there  is 
always  a  certain  settled  population,  independently  of 
the  migrants  who  come  home  to  build  their  nests  in 
summer  and  the  shivering  fugitives  who  in  winter  are 
driven  from  the  frozen  north.  But  there  are  parts  of 
the  coast  where  in  calm  weather  few  birds  are  visible 
at  all  during  the  hours  of  daylight.  There  are  times 
when  you  may  warider  by  the  sea  with  no  birds  in 
sight,  except  a  wandering  gull  that,  far  off  upon  the 
waves,  shows  for  a  moment  like  the  surf,  or  a  cloud  of 
ducks  that,  in  even  line,  fly  low  along  the  water  far 
from  land. 

But  when  the  sun  is  well  down  in  the  west,  when 
the  dull  mud-flats  begin  to  take  colour  from  the  sky, 
then  the  life  of  the  shore  seems  suddenly  to  waken. 

A  hundred  yards  in  front  of  you,  as  you  stroll  along 
the  edge  of  the  tide,  a  flock  of  sandpipers  are  scattered 
on  the  wet  sand.  Now  the  swift  wave  flows  about 
their  feet,  then  retires  again,  while  the  active  little 
birds  run  to  and  fro  picking  up  the  tiny  morsels  that 
the  tide  has  brought  them. 

As  you  draw  nearer,  one  of  the  little  company  with 
plaintive  cry  takes  wing,  then  another,  and  then  all  at 
once  the  whole  troop  rise  and  fly  straight  out  over  the 


His  Island  Home.  39 

sea.  Turning  shorewards  now,  on  rapid  wings,  they 
alight  again  far  down  the  beach  where  the  eye  no 
longer  can  make  out  their  graceful  forms. 

Across  the  sky  overhead,  with  long  beaks  plainly 
visible,  and  uttering  now  and  then  a  plaintive  call, 
floats  a  line  of  curlews.  Now  they  open  out  in 
skirmishing  order,  and  settle  on  a  bank  of  sand  that 
the  sea  is  leaving  bare. 

As  the  dusk  grows  deeper,  a  flock  of  purres  and 
plovers,  that  your  hushed  footfalls  on  the  sand  have 
not  disturbed,  rise  suddenly  unseen  from  every  side 
at  once,  and  all  the  air  is  full  of  cries  and  rushing 
wings. 

That  long  trill  is  the  call  of  an  oystercatcher, 
wandering  somewhere  among  the  fringe  of  weed  round 
the  great  rock  by  the  river,  whose  rugged  mass  is  now 
a  mere  shadow  on  the  sky.  The  oystercatcher  is 
native  here,  but  many  of  the  tenants  of  the  shore  are 
nomads,  and  as  spring  draws  near  will  vanish  some 
moonlight  night,  and,  disbanding  by  the  shores  of 
northern  seas,  or  in  the  solitude  of  Siberian  moors, 
will  spend  the  months  of  summer  far  from  here. 

Then  as  the  dunlins  go,  a  few  terns  may  pay  us  a 
visit  for  a  week  or  two  on  their  homeward  way,  and 
delight  our  eyes  with  their  graceful  evolutions. 

Many  callers  put  into  the  bay  as  the  year  goes 
round.  Hard  days  in  winter  may  bring  a  flock  of 
Brent  geese  into  the  river,  sometimes  even  a  herd  of 
swans.  Now  and  then  from  rocky  haunts  on  the 


40  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

opposite  coast  appears  a  cormorant.  More  rarely  still 
a  diver  will  spend  a  day  or  two  among  the  sprat-nets, 
astonishing  the  fishermen  with  his  amazing  powers  of 
staying  under  water. 

The  face  of  Nature,  ever  fair  and  young,  is  fresher 
still  and  fairer  in  the  light  of  dawn ;  and  none  can 
know  it  better  than  the  man  who,  from  his  boat  on 
the  river,  has  watched  the  young  light  breaking  in  the 
east;  who  has  seen  the  dim  outlines  of  the  hills  take 
shape  against  the  sky — the  broad  shoulders  of  Mendip 
rank  behind  rank  far  down  their  winding  line ;  has 
watched  the  mist  clear  off  the  moorland,  and  the  blue 
smoke  of  scattered  hamlets  rise  among  the  sheltering 
trees. 

Drifting  down  the  tide  with  idle  oar,  he  comes 
suddenly  on  a  creek  by  the  river  where,  all  night  long, 
a  grey  old  heron  has  watched  and  waited  by  the  shift- 
ing sea.  The  startled  bird,  with  muttered  croak,  draws 
in  his  long  neck,  spreads  his  great  wings,  stretches  out 
his  awkward  legs,  and  with  slow,  deliberate  flight  makes 
for  his  home  among  the  hills. 

Over  one  of  the  ditches  of  the  level  fields  that 
fringe  the  banks  a  kingfisher  is  hovering,  poised  above 
the  water  like  a  hawk.  The  sun  flashes  on  his  bright 
plumage  as  he  swoops  down  now  and  then  to  reappear 
fifty  yards  farther  on. 

From  the  feeding-grounds  on  shore  mallard  and 
widgeon  are  hurrying  to  the  sea.  Here  comes  a  string 
of  teal  that,  leaving  the  moorland  ditches  where  all 


His  Island  Home.  41 

the  night  they  have  been  foraging  in  the  darkness, 
follow  now  the'  windings  of  the  river,  their  flying 
figures  dark  upon  the  sunlit  sky.  They  quicken  thei: 
pace  a  little  as  they  pass  overhead,  although  the 
watchful  figure  in  the  boat  makes  no  movement  to 
disturb  them.  They  have  passed  the  rock  ;  they  have 
gained  the  open  sea. 

Suddenly,  from  the  brow  of  the  long  cliff  whose 
rocky  barrier  stretches  far  out  into  the  bay,  sweeps 
down  a  bird.  By  his  powerful  flight  and  the  bold 
markings  of  his  plumage  you  will  know  him  well.  It 
is  a  peregrine ;  and  the  frightened  teal,  too,  know  well 
the  rush  of  those  terrible  wings. 

They  make  a  desperate  effort  to  sheer  off  and  beat 
out  from  the  shore ;  but  it  is  too  late.  The  keen- 
eyed  falcon  has  marked  his  bird.  There  is  a  scream  ; 
a  little  cloud  of  feathers  that  float  upon  the  air,  and 
then,  with  laboured  flight,  the  peregrine  with  his  booty 
in  his  clutches  turns  seaward  too,  in  the  track  of  the 
vanished  teal. 

It  is  a  safe  retreat  to  which  the  robber  bears  his 
prey.  Straight  up  from  the  water  rise  the  rugged 
cliffs,  their  seagirt  steep  whitened  by  the  shingle  of 
a  single  landing-place — elsewhere  an  unbroken  wall 
that  many  a  time  in  bygone  days  has  made  the  little 
islet  a  safe  refuge  from  pursuit. 

Here  it  was  that  Gildas  spent  seven  years  of 
solitude  among  the  birds  who  shared  with  him  his 
lonely  rock,  until  the  rude  manners  of  the  Orcadian 


42  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

sea-rovers  drove  him  to  seek  shelter  in  the  halls  of 
Glastonbury. 

Here,  too,  a  century  later,  the  pirate  fleet,  beaten 
off  from  the  mainland  further  on  by  the  bold  Somerset- 
shire yeomen,  put  in  for  breathing-space,  and,  reduced 
to  dire  extremity  by  their  resolute  opponents,  were 
fain  to  cut  their  way  through  as  best  they  might,  and 
withdraw  their  shattered  powers  to  harry  some 
remoter  shore. 

Here  it  was  that  Githa,  after  that  sorrowful  search 
on  the  red  grass  of  Senlac,  stayed  awhile  with  her  train 
— mourning  like  her  for  the  harvest  of  that  stubborn 
field. 

Here,  too,  in  a  fitting  spot,  a  little  colony  of  monks 
escaping  from  the  world  found  a  solitude  in  which, 
like  a  band  of  mason  bees,  they  built  their  simple 
cells. 

The  spade  of  the  labourer  has  found  far  under  the 
surface  here  the  fragment  of  a  wall,  there  a  little  group 
of  nameless  graves.  All  else  has  vanished. 

From  monkish  times  may  date,  perhaps,  the  wild 
peony,  whose  red  petals  still,  in  spite  of  ruthless 
botanists,  tinge  the  stunted  grass.  No  other  trace 
recalls  the  faded  memories  of  this  sea-girt  rock. 

From  the  windy  steep,  whence  Githa  looked  sea- 
ward with  sad  eyes  for  the  white  sails  that  were  to 
bear  her  far  from  home,  frown  the  grim  guns  of  the 
battery,  whose  handful  of  artillerymen  seems  almost 
to  accentuate  the  solitude. 


His  Island  Home.  43 

The  stillness  now  is  broken  but  by  the  scream  of 
the  falcon  flying  to  his  fastness,  or  the  clamour  of  the 
gulls  that  wheel  idly  over  the  sea.  The  pirates  that 
to-day  find  shelter  here  are  the  raven  and  the  pere- 
grine. Sea-lavender  and  cistus  bloom  above  the 
buried  ruins  of  the  priory,  and  the  scented  clusters  of 
the  thyme  wander  over  long-forgotten  graves. 


CASTLES    IN   THE   AIR. 


THE  winds  of  March  have  passed  into  a  proverb. 
There  is  no  time  in  all  the  year  when  the 
cruel  east  blows  with  keener  and  more  pitiless  breath. 
Spring  is  in  her  most  capricious  mood.  She  is  indeed 
a  wayward  damsel  at  her  best.  Year  by  year  we  watch 
her  smile  turn  swiftly  to  a  frown ;  we  upbraid  her  for 
a  jilt  and  a  deceiver ;  we  swear  that  her  vaunted 
graces  are  nothing  but  a  fraud. 

But  she  has,  even  in  March,  her  moods  of  sweet- 
ness. Right  royal  favours,  after  all,  are  her  days  ot 
genial  sunshine,  when  the  vanes  veer  idly  to  the  west- 
ward, and  the  air  is  almost  still ;  when  the  long-silent 
birds  find  voice  again,  when  butterflies  begin  to  stir 
abroad,  and  the  bees  are  busy  gilding  their  brown 
coats  in  the  wide  crocus  blooms. 

The  bitter  memories  are  nothing  to  us  then.  Who 
could  doubt  when  looking  at  a  face  so  fair  ?  Surely 
no  malice  underlies  that  kindly  smile.  Yes,  it  is  a 
hard  experience;  it  is  long  ere  we  wholly  earn  the 
lesson  of  distrust. 


Castles  in  the  Air.  45 

But  March  for  once  has  had  more  in  it  of  westward 
than  of  east,  after  all ;  no  bitter  winds  have  chilled  the 
generous  sunshine  of  the  lengthening  days. 

Under  its  influence  benign  the  purple  blossoms 
jewel  all  the  branches  of  the  elms,  a  mist  of  green  is 
gathering  in  the  thickets,  the  blue-bell  leaves  are 
springing  in  the  underwood. 

Under  every  hedgerow  the  celandine  spreads  its 
petals  to  the  utmost,  as  if  to  gather  from  the  sunlight 
an  added  touch  of  gold. 

There  are  speedwells  by  the  wayside;  there  are 
primroses  in  the  copse.  Stray  violets  begin  to  scent 
the  lanes,  and  the  fair  faces  of  the  wood  anemones 
are  peering  through  the  deep,  dead  leaves. 

Everywhere  the  birds  are  busy.  On  the  housetop 
sits  the  chattering  starling,  his  half-finished  nest  in 
the  gable  beneath  him  abandoned  for  the  moment ; 
while  in  his  own  quaint  way  he  gives  utterance  to  the 
love  that  stirs  his  pulses. 

In  the  warm  sun  the  chaffinch  sings,  with  hardly  a 
pause  between  the  endless  verses  of  his  simple  ballad. 

A  sober  hedge-sparrow,  creeping  mouse  like  through 
the  bushes,  searching  the  leaves  for  snail  or  insect, 
looks  up  from  his  work  now  and  then,  and  sings  with 
all  his  might ;  or,  as  his  mate  draws  near,  lowers  his 
voice  until  the  listener  can  hardly  catch  the  notes  of 
the  tender  little  love  song  that  he  whispers  in  her  ear, 
as  if  jealous  lest  some  idle  mischief  maker  strolling  by 
should  overhear  him,  and  mock  the  story  of  his  love. 


46  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

Farther  down  the  hedge  there  sits  another  pair  of 
lovers — two  blue  tits  in  their  bright  spring  dress,  now 
circling  round  each  other,  now  chattering  softly,  now 
fluttering  a  little  way  into  the  air,  and  now  flying  off 
in  company  to  see  if  the  old  hole  in  the  ruined  wall 
yonder,  where  the  ivy  hangs  its  friendly  veil  before  the 
door,  is  vacant  again  this  season. 

Overhead  a  lark  is  singing,  not  with  the  full  flood  of 
melody  that  later  in  the  year  will  charm  us  with  its 
magical  music,  but  with  sweet  snatches  of  most 
exquisite  song;  and  as  he  sinks  downward  to  the 
wintry  fields  again,  another  rises,  and  follows  with  a 
few  bars  at  least  of  that  strain  that,  heard  under  un- 
familiar skies,  has  roused,  in  the  softened  hearts  of 
rugged  settlers,  long-buried  memories  of  home  and 
childhood. 

The  songs  of  birds  are  to  them  the  prelude  of  the 
little  drama  of  their  lives  that,  each  returning  spring,  is 
acted  and  reacted  in  the  greenwood,  in  the  meadow,  by 
the  sea,  by  masters  of  the  art. 

Still,  through  the  opening  scenes  the  music  lingers, 
rising  higher,  sweeter,  clearer  ere  its  close,  when  the 
long  vigil  of  the  mother  bird  is  ended,  and  when  she 
and  her  mate  have  time  for  nothing  but  to  minister  to 
the  needs  of  their  little  family  of  gaping,  goggle-eyed, 
naked  nestlings. 

We  watch  the  old  birds  carrying  food  ;  we  hear  the 
querulous  voices  of  their  young,  but  we  see  compara- 
tively little  of  their  domestic  arrangements. 


Castles  in  the  Air.  47 

Sometimes  the  nest  is  hidden  away  from  sight  alto- 
gether, in  a  hole  in  an  overhanging  bank,  or  deep 
in  a  crevice  in  the  wall. 

Some  birds,  again,  conceal  their  nests  by  skilfully 
harmonizing  the  materials  with  the  surroundings. 

A  wonderful  charm  there  is  in  looking  on  as  the 
work  progresses,  to  watch  the  creeper  glide  up  the 
rugged  bark  of  the  tall  elm  with  a  feather  fluttering  in 
her  beak,  and  disappear  behind  the  knotted  ivy  stems 
that  hold  her  cosy  nest ;  to  see  the  starling  carry  his 
untidy  odds  and  ends  into  the  woodpecker's  hole  in 
the  walnut-tree ;  to  watch  the  woodpecker  himself,  the 
rightful  owner,  venture  near  now  and  then  to  look  on 
with  unmistakable  signs  of  indignation. 

But  conspicuous  now  among  the  busy  throng  are 
the  rooks,  and  loud  above  the  notes  of  shyer  builders 
rises  the  clamour  of  the  rookery. 

The  magpie  and  the  crow,  birds  of  the  same  out- 
lawed clan,  are  as  shy  in  their  building  work  as  they 
are  in  other  ways.  They  choose  the  darkest  corner 
of  the  wood,  the  most  solitary  clump  of  trees,  the 
tallest  elm  on  the  farm ;  and  it  is  as  hard  to  watch 
them  at  their  work  as  it  is  to  stalk  them  in  the  open. 

But  it  is  quite  otherwise  with  the  rook.  It  is  no  un- 
common thing  to  find  among  the  busy  streets  of  a 
town  a  row  of  elms  where  the  great  ungainly  birds 
build  with  perfect  confidence  their  huge  nests,  and  sit, 
and  wrangle,  and  make  love,  careless  of  the  roar  of 
traffic,  and  all  unconscious  of  the  passers-by. 


48  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

High  up  in  the  rocking  tops  all  day  the  birds  are 
working,  repairing  a  foundation  here,  making  good  a 
breach  there,  now  putting  fresh  touches  to  the  lining. 

Every  moment  arrives  a  party  of  foragers,  greeted 
with  new  clamour  from  their  friends  at  home,  who 
recognise  far-off  their  mates  among  the  dusky  crowd. 

Wheeling  on  broad  wings  across  the  wind  that  drives 
the  white  clouds  fast  across  the  pale  blue  overhead, 
the  great  birds  bring  home  their  plunder. 

Here  comes  one  grasping  in  his  beak  a  stick  so  long 
and  heavy  that  he  can  scarcely  reach  his  nest. 
Another  carries  to  his  mate  a  seed-potato  plundered 
from  some  newly-planted  field. 

The  solemn  caws  of  dignified  citizens  mingle  with 
the  sharper  clamour  of  irreverent  youth;  some  are 
hoarse  from  age  or  temper;  while  one  bird,  whose 
vocal  organs  have  perhaps  been  damaged  in  that 
baptism  of  fire  that  yearly  waits  the  hapless  young, 
utters  a  cry  like  the  shriek  of  a  sea-gull. 

There  seems  to  be  the  slenderest  idea  of  the  rights 
of  property  among  the  members  of  the  commonwealth. 

Now  one  bird,  leaving  his  own  nest  where  he  has 
been  honestly  at  work  for  the  last  ten  minutes,  sidles 
up  to  another— the  property,  probably,  of  a  newly- 
married  pair  who  have  yet  to  learn  the  ways  of  their 
friends  and  neighbours— seizes  a  handful  of  the  lining 
that  has  taken  so  much  trouble  to  collect,  and  then 
scrambles  off  across  the  branches  to  make  use  of  his 
ill-gotten  gains  in  his  own  abode.  And  when  one  of 


Castles  in  the  Air.  49 

the  aggrieved  couple  returns,  and  makes  an  effort  to 
protect  his  property,  the  impudent  thief  actually  buffets 
him  off  and  helps  himself  to  another  handful. 

There  is  no  honour  among  these  thieves,  and  that 
is  the  reason,  no  doubt,  why  so  many  nests  are 
guarded  by  one  owner  while  the  other  is  foraging 
abroad. 

Sometimes  three  or  four  pirates  will  put  their  dark 
heads  together  and  make  a  sudden  descent  on  even  a 
guarded  nest,  driving  the  owner,  dismayed  by  the  odds 
against  him,  off  in  headlong  flight,  and  then  coolly 
help  themselves  to  any  handy  sticks  that  may  take 
their  fancy. 

Quarrels  of  this  kind  are  not  conducted  in  silence, 
and  there  is  a  good  deal  of  plain  language  when  a  nest 
is  approached,  whether  with  peaceable  intentions  or 
not,  by  those  who  are  not  on  visiting  terms  with  the 
tenants. 

It  is  a  peaceful  spot  the  birds  have  chosen  for  their 
home.  One  is  tempted  to  fancy  that  these  stately 
elms,  screening  with  sheltering  arms  the  old  church 
that  nestles  close  under  the  shadow  of  the  hill,  were 
standing  here,  in  the  pride  of  youth  and  beauty,  when 
the  ill  news  travelled  fast  across  the  marshes,  from  the 
low  blue  hills  to  the  eastward,  that  the  bolt  had  fallen  at 
last,  and  that  the  glory  of  the  great  abbey  had  departed. 

The  knoll  above  is  crowned  by  the  ramparts  of 
a  Celtic  camp.  Traditions  of  King  Arthur's  time 
peopled  the  fortress  with  a  race  of  giants.  Stray  hand- 

4 


5o  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

fuls  of  coins  found  from  time  to  time  among  the  earth- 
works on  its  summit,  the  rusted  arms  of  Dane  and 
Saxon  turned  up  among  the  rich  black  earth  of  the 
meadows  at  its  foot,  are  clearer  evidence  that  the 
Eagle  and  the  Raven  folded  here  for  a  space  their 
conquering  wings. 

Here  round  the  ancient  tower  the  rooks  find  safe 
asylum.  As  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west,  the  black- 
coated  citizens  gather  in  the  tree-tops,  and  talk  in 
hushed  and  solemn  tones,  as  if  the  clamour  of  the  day 
light  were  a  thing  to  be  forgotten. 

Through  the  western  windows  of  the  church  the 
light  of  sunset  falls  like  a  glory  round  the  kneeling 
figure  of  a  long-forgotten  cavalier. 

There,  week  by  week,  the  sounds  of  that  labour 
that  knows  no  day  of  rest  are  heard  in  the  pauses  of 
the  hymn ;  while  at  times,  above  the  Babel  in  the  tree- 
tops,  rises  the  loud  twitter  of  a  nuthatch  or  the  shrill 
cry  of  a  restless  starling. 

The  sun  is  down.  The  far-off  hills  are  growing  cold 
and  dark  ;  the  silver  of  the  sea  is  changing  into  sullen 
gray  ;  the  mist  that  rises  from  the  marsh-land  gathers 
round  the  hill  like  the  waters  of  a  silent  sea. 

Suddenly,  from  his  retreat  in  a  hollow  elm  near  by, 
flies  out  an  owl,  and  on  noiseless  wings  flits  like  a 
phantom  across  the  darkening  graves.  He  has 
vanished  in  the  dusk ;  but,  as  the  night  settles  softly 
down  among  the  clustering  trees,  there  sounds  along 
the  hill  at  intervals  his  mournful,  mellow  call. 


MEADOWS    OF   ASPHODEL. 


HE  month  of  March,  with  its 
broken  sunshine  and  its  windy 
skies,  has  brightened  the  lanes 
and  meadows  with  touches  of  the  t 
colour  that,  under  the  warmer  sun 
of  April,    will    broaden  now    from 
week  to  week  until  it  ripens  into  the 
flowery  prime  of  May. 

From  far  southern  lands  come  back  the  wander- 
ing birds.  The  swallow,  lost  to  us  so  long,  seeks 
again  the  haunts  of  her  youth.  All  day  long  the  chiff- 
chaff  is  telling  to  the  children  of  the  wood  the  news 
of  her  return  ;  and  on  every  hand,  in  field  and  hedge- 
row, fresh  plants  are  opening  to  the  sun. 

4—2 


52  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

Some  flowers  there  are  whose  colour  lends  but  little 
to  the  scene.  Small,  or  few  in  number,  or  quiet  in 
their  tone,  the  world  will  pass  them  by  unnoticed. 

The  ladies'-tresses  that  shyly  lifts  its  fragrant  spike 
of  green  among  the  tall  grasses  on  the  hill,  the  orchis, 
whose  marvellous  flowers  cling  to  the  stem  like  cluster- 
ing bees,  might  almost  '  look  away  and  never  be 
missed '  save  by  the  lover  of  Nature,  who  knows  them 
well. 

Other  flowers  again  make  themselves  a  part  of  the 
very  landscape. 

Such  are  even  the  daisies  scattered  broadcast  over 
the  April  fields,  and  gathering  thick  upon  the  slopes 
like  patches  of  drifted  snow.  Such  are  the  bluebells 
that  make  a  purple  cloud  among  the  copses.  Such, 
too,  the  buttercups  that  tinge  with  gold  the  mowing 
grass.  Such  the  warm  crocus  blooms,  that  flush  the 
autumn  meadows  like  a  twilight  mist  touched  with  the 
fire  of  sunset. 

As  bold  in  colouring  as  any,  and  doubly  welcome 
now  ere  the  full  noon  of  spring,  are  '  the  daffodils 
that  come  before  the  swallow  dares,'  and  with  their 
generous  wealth  set  all  the  fields  aflame. 

Now  in  countless  thousands  rise  the  pale  green 
leaves ;  acres  of  broad  pasture-land  are  glowing  with 
the  yellow  blooms. 

For  centuries,  no  doubt,  these  meadows  have  worn 
each  year  this  crowning  glory  of  the  wild  March  weather. 

For  centuries   the   children   of  the    hamlet   have 


Meadows  of  Asphodel.  53 

carried  home  to  light  their  cottage  dwellings  rich  arm- 
fuls  of  the  plundered  gold. 

Perhaps  the  forgotten  warriors,  whose  mail-clad 
effigies  guard  now  the  porch  of  yonder  church,  re- 
membered long  these  sunny  fields. 

Marlborough's  stately  duchess  may  have  wandered 
many  a  time  in  fancy  back  to  this  quiet  Mendip 
village,  where  she,  too,  a  careless  child,  played  in  these 
meadows  of  asphodel. 

Round  another  house  some  miles  away,  which 
tradition  also  points  to  as  a  home  of  hers,  are  daffodils 
again. 

Not  in  broad  sheets  gilding  the  level  fields,  but 
peering  out  of  hedgerows,  skirting  the  edges  of  wood- 
lands, leaning  over  the  waters  of  the  brook  that, 
breaking  from  its  dark  chamber  in  the  hill,  steals 
away  to  join  the  lazy  river  that  winds  across  the  moor 
land  to  the  sea. 

Higher  up  among  the  hills,  in  a  rocky  valley  over- 
grown with  thickets,  is  a  great  colony  of  daffodils  that 
have  found  a  spot  more  picturesque  perhaps,  though 
without  the  striking  effect  of  the  rich  masses  that 
spread  untrammelled  in  the  open. 

The  ground  is  honeycombed  with  crumbling  shafts 
and  ruined  galleries,  piled  with  heaps  of  rubbish  and 
strewn  with  refuse  ore. 

These  hills  are  rich  in  metal.  They  have  had  a 
long  history.  The  ores  of  Somerset  were  known  even 
to  Tyrian  traders.  The  Roman  conquerors  kid  eager 


54  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

hands  on  the  '  silver '  mines  of  Mendip ;  and  it  is 
barely  half  a  century  since  the  palmy  days  of  these 
now  ruinous  villages,  when  every  man  who  worked  for 
his  own  hand  could  raise  a  pound's  worth  of  metal  in 
a  day. 

But  the  ore  was  poor.  It  would  not  repay  the  cost 
of  machinery,  and  when  the  veins  ran  too  deep  to  be 
easily  managed  by  manual  labour,  they  were  followed 
no  further. 

Thus  the  hills  are  scarred  from  end  to  end  with  the 
abandoned  workings.  Thus  the  mining  villages  have 
fallen  on  evil  times,  and  the  '  rugged  miners  '  are  now 
little  more  than  a  memory. 

One  curious  relic  of  their  craft  survives.  The 
divining-rod,  constantly  employed  in  bygone  days  in 
tracing  the  course  of  veins  of  metal,  is  even  in  our 
time  by  no  means  forgotten. 

There  are  still  men  who  can  '  dowse '  for  ore  or 
water.  Still  before  a  well  is  sunk  the  aid  of  the 
1  dowsing-rod  '  is  called  in  to  make  sure  of  a  suitable 
spot. 

Over  all  the  valley  there  grows  a  very  jungle  of 
hazel  and  briar,  with  scattered  oak  trees  and  clumps 
of  blackthorn. 

Among  the  thickets  badgers  still  find  shelter. 

On  heaps  of  stone,  whose  hard  edges  are  blurred 
with  moss  and  fringed  with  graceful  ferns,  vipers  bask 
in  the  long  summer  afternoons,  and  warm  their  dusky 
armour  in  the  sun. 


Meadows  of  Asphodel.  55 

Here  in  this  sheltered  hollow  we  may  read  how  well 
with  her  deft  fingers  Nature  hides  the  works  of  Man, 
how  swiftly  his  memory  is  effaced,  how  soon  his 
presence  is  forgotten. 

This  rugged  brow,  that  looks  no  other  than  the 
living  rock,  so  grey  is  it  with  clinging  lichens,  so  draped 
with  soft  green  moss,  so  hung  with  ivy,  and  so  tasselled 
everywhere  with  ferns,  is  the  entrance  of  an  ancient 
mine. 

In  the  crevices  of  the  unmortared  masonry  the 
wood-sage  is  beginning  to  unfurl  its  wrinkled  leaves. 

Over  the  mounds  near  by,  the  spotted  blades  of 
early  orchises  give  promise  of  plenty  of  rich  colour 
later  on. 

Under  a  great  bramble,  whose  armed  branches 
shelter  well  the  plants  that  put  their  trust  in  its  shadow, 
springs  the  rich  green  foliage  of  a  tall  spurge-laurel, 
that  in  its  growth  recalls  the  graceful  figure  of  the 
hapless  Daphne,  and  in  the  sweet  breath  of  its  pallid 
blossoms  the  fragrance  of  her  youth. 

And  everywhere  among  the  thickets,  lifting  their 
bright  faces  through  the  tangle  of  the  briars,  drooping 
gracefully  from  crevices  in  the  rock  itself,  are  myriads 
of  daffodils.  There  are  clumps  of  them  among  all  the 
scattered  bushes,  there  are  patches  on  the  hill-crest 
higher  up,  they  peer  out  of  the  hedge  of  the  lane  that 
winds  along  at  the  foot  of  the  valley,  they  have 
climbed  the  steep  slope  of  the  pasture  beyond. 

Lying  idly  here  upon  the  sunny  slope  you  gradually 


56  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

grow  conscious  of  the  presence  near  you  of  a  score  of 
shy  companions  who,  when  you  are  still,  will  pursue 
without  fear  their  various  avocations. 

Faint  rustling  sounds  among  the  bushes  betray  the 
movements  of  some  mouse  or  lizard. 

There  are  dormice  here — Seven  Sleepers  the  villagers 
call  them — but  they  are  hardly  awake  so  early  as  this. 

Yonder  a  tiny  sun  beetle  in  glittering  armour 
hurries  across  a  patch  of  sandy  soil. 

Another  beetle,  wheeling  past  like  a  sleepy  blue- 
bottle fly,  settles  down  within  reach  of  your  hand. 
Look  away  for  a  moment  and  you  will  find  it  hard  to 
see  him  again,  so  well  does  his  green  coat  fit  in  with 
the  tint  of  the  surrounding  leaves.  It  is  not  easy  to 
catch  him,  he  is  quick  in  his  movements  and  prompt 
to  take  wing,  and  when  he  is  caught  he  may  give  you 
a  smart  nip  with  his  strong  jaws  that  will  make  you 
think  '  tiger-beetle '  no  bad  name  for  him.  He  is  a 
cannibal  too,  and  should  you  be  so  rash  as  to  imprison 
two  together,  you  will  be  reminded,  when  you  open 
the  box,  of  the  fate  of  the  Kilkenny  cats. 

Now  you  hear  among  the  grass  the  faint  cry  of  a 
shrew,  perhaps  even  see  the  timid  little  creature  that 
vanishes  at  your  slightest  movement. 

That  prolonged  rustle  is  perhaps  a  grass  snake 
gliding  away  among  the  thickets. 

A  very  real  touch  of  spring-time  is  the  butterfly 
that  is  flitting  here  and  there  among  the  bushes,  his 
yellow  wings  just  matching  the  colour  of  the  daffodils. 


Meadows  of  Asphodel.  57 

This  sunny  morning  has  tempted  him  from  his  winter 
sleep  to  make  the  most  of  the  last  few  weeks  of  his 
brief  existence. 

In  the  topmost  branches  of  a  beech,  that  lifts  its 
slender  column  high  above  the  underwood,  a  party  of 
linnets  have  alighted.  They  are  singing  all  at  once, 
and  as  the  spray  that  bends  beneath  their  weight 
swings  gently  in  the  wind,  the  rhythm  of  their  song 
seems  just  in  keeping  with  the  dreamy  motion. 

From  the  depths  of  a  broad  holly  bush  below  there 
comes  the  note  of  a  restless  blackbird,  whose  mate  is 
perhaps  by  this  time  sitting  on  her  eggs  in  the  friendly 
shelter  of  the  prickly  bush. 

Presently  something  startles  him  outright,  and  he 
dashes  headlong  from  cover  with  a  shriek  of  terror 
loud  enough  to  frighten  all  the  birds  in  the  valley. 

In  old  days,  so  runs  the  legend,  some  master  of  the 
Black  Art  surprised  in  his  cavern  a  white  bird  un- 
earthing with  irreverent  bill  the  treasures  concealed 
beneath  the  floor.  Still  the  unhappy  bird  wears 
the  suit  of  sable  to  which,  by  the  wand  of  the 
enchanter,  was  changed  his  garb  of  snow.  Still 
the  blackbird  repeats  the  scream  he  uttered  as 
he  fled  headlong  from  the  terrible  presence.  Still 
to  his  beak  there  clings  a  trace  of  the  magician's 
gold. 

Close  by,  the  footfall  of  a  bird  stirs  among  the 
withered  leaves,  and  presently  a  robin  flies  up  into 
the  dwarf  oak-tree  overhead,  and  flits  uneasily  from 


58  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

branch  to  branch,  uttering  at  times  a  single  plaintive 
note. 

Can  his  nest  be  near?  In  a  hollow  in  the  rock 
before  you  a  few  dead  leaves  have  lodged,  and  before 
them  hang  like  a  veil  three  fronds  of  harts-tongue. 
There  seems  no  definite  arrangement,  no  trace  of  art 
about  them,  but  when  you  put  the  ferns  aside  you  see 
the  rounded  outline  of  a  nest,  and  within  it  are  the 
four  warm  eggs. 

This,  then,  is  what  the  robin  is  anxious  about.  You 
will  leave  his  nest  unharried,  remembering  the  service 
of  the  bright-eyed  singer,  and,  as  you  make  your  way 
down  through  the  thickets,  he  will  pay  you  with  a 
song. 


WHEN  ALL  THE  WORLD  IS  YOUNG 


T  is  the  very  glory  of  the  spring- 
time.    Though  April,  coy  as  ever, 
was  chary  of  her  sunshine  and  all  too  lavish  of  the 


60  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

useful  trouble  of   the  rain,  she   left  the   lanes   and 
copses  all  aglow  with  flowers. 

Broader  grow  each  day  the  fans  of  the  horse-chestnut, 
sweeter  the  fragrance  of  the  black  poplar,  brighter  the 
glow  of  blossoming  almond-trees. 

Deeper  are  the  clouds  of  green  that  among  the 
dark  pines  on  the  hill  are  gathering  round  the  larch 
tops. 

Higher  still  under  the  hedgerows  grows  the  wilder- 
ness of  flowers  and  ferns  and  leaves. 

Louder  rises  the  clamour  of  the  rookery  as  the 
querulous  cries  of  the  nestlings  grow  stronger  in  their 
wind-rocked  cradles. 

More  glorious  yet  is  the  music  of  the  thrush  ;  and 
at  the  hour  of  twilight  welcome  still  as  ever  comes 
the  blackbird's  song. 

Now,  too,  the  redstart  and  the  wryneck,  the  black- 
cap and  the  nightingale,  and  many  another  truant  who 
left  us  when  the  leaves  began  to  fall,  come  back  across 
the  sea,  and  take  their  part  in  the  great  chorus. 

And  if  at  times  the  air  blows  keen  on  the  world 
without,  this  sheltered  hollow  is  ever  full  of  the  warm 
south ;  here  we  seem  even  on  the  threshold  of  the 
summer. 

Over  the  soft  earth  turned  up  by  mouse  and  mole 
and  worm,  until  the  foot  sinks  deep  at  every  step,  is 
spread  a  very  carpet  of  celandine  leaves,  strewn  with 
wide  yellow  blooms  like  studs  of  gold.  The  white 
stars  of  wood  anemones  are  scattered  like  snow  on  all 


When  all  the  World  is  Young.  61 

the  slopes.  Wood  violets  open  shyly  their  pale  eyes, 
as  if  conscious  of  their  lost  perfume. 

Leaves  that  promise  a  very  blaze  of  colour  are 
springing  everywhere  among  the  thickets.  The  bright 
foliage  of  the  hawthorn,  the  bronzed  palms  of  the 
sycamore,  the  swaying  canopies  of  woodbine,  and  the 
feathery  tufts  upon  the  larch,  seem  to  fill  the  glade 
with  a  soft  green  mist  and  to  tinge  the  very  air  with 
their  tender  tone. 

The  wood  is  all  astir  with  life  and  music.  Chaffinch 
and  oxeye,  wren  and  robin,  missel-thrush  and  black- 
bird, are  singing  all  day  long  on  every  side,  and  not  a 
note  too  much,  nor  ever  out  of  tune. 

Among  the  swaying  elm  boughs  overhead  a  willow- 
warbler,  just  come  back,  utters  at  intervals  his  gentle 
song.  The  quiet  little  cadence  rippling  down  through 
the  branches  has  in  it  almost  a  murmur  of  regret,  as  if 
for  summer  lands  too  soon  forsaken. 

It  is  a  quiet  spot  There  is  indeed  a  pathway  here, 
but  so  seldom  is  it  used  that  a  thrush  has  built  un- 
disturbed so  near  the  way  that  you  might  touch  her 
with  your  hand  in  passing.  She  is  sitting  even  now. 
Over  the  rim  of  the  nest  you  can  see  her  tail  erect, 
her  sharp  bright  eye  that  is  conscious  of  your  every 
movement.  She  will  let  you  almost  touch  her  if  you 
approach  her  softly,  but,  just  before  you  can  stroke 
her  smooth  brown  back,  she  glides  away  from  under 
your  hand,  leaving  to  your  mercy  the  bright  blue  eggs 
warm  from  the  pressure  of  her  tender  breast. 


62  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

Disturbed,  perhaps,  by  her  passing  shadow  as 
stole  silently  away,  a  wren,  that  was  just  now  sir 
loud  and  clear  his  perfect  little  melody,  startle: 
woodland  with  his  shrill  alarm. 

Close  by  is  his  dwelling — a  handful  of  dry  1< 
among  the  ivy  that  holds  a  sturdy  oak  in  close 
brace.  Reassured  by  your  stillness,  however, 
restless  little  builder  grows  quiet  again,  and 
creeps  back  through  the  bushes  to  resume  his  A 
Presently,  with  a  tuft  of  down  in  his  beak,  he  flie 
to  the  nest,  and  disappears  within  the  tiny  entran 

From  the  shadows  of  the  elms,  that  cluster  01 
opposite  slope,  comes  now  and  then  the  pleasan 
of  the  ringdove  ;  more  rarely  still  the  quiet  laugh 
solitary  woodpecker. 

And  all   the   while,   among  the  tree-tops,  ir 
bushes,  on  the  ground  itself,  sounds  the  pleasant 
of  the  busy  little  chiffchaff. 

Suddenly  breaks  in  a  louder  song,  sweeter,  cle 
richer  still  than  all.  It  is  the  blackcap's  mi 
strain,  and  yonder  flits  among  the  thickets  the  re: 
figure  of  the  singer. 

He  is  silent  again,  and  you  can  trace  him  now 
by  the  tremor  of  a  spray  that  bends  beneatr 
weight,  or  a  rustling  among  the  dry  leaves  oJ 
bramble. 

Then  in  the  shadows  unseen  he  sings  again — 

'  Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times, 
And  changing  like  a  poet's  rhymes.' 


When  all  the  World  is  Young.  63 

Now  his  voice  is  faint,  and  hardly  heard  above  the 
sounds  of  the  wood.  Now  it  is  harsh  and  altogether 
unmusical.  Again,  it  is  a  faultless  strain  that  rivals 
the  psean  of  the  very  nightingale. 

Silent  again,  the  wilful  little  singer !  Then  he 
threads  his  way  upward  through  the  bushes,  and 
coming  to  the  light  at  last,  he  balances  a  moment  on 
a  spray  of  briar  just  touched  with  vivid  green,  and 
pours  his  heart  out  in  a  burst  of  song. 

The  slender  outline  of  his  sylph-like  form,  the  delicate 
gray  of  his  breast,  the  dark  feathers  of  h's  tufted  crown, 
are  clear  against  the  green  background  of  the  wood. 

How  dull  and  cold  must  seem  to  him  these  wintry 
thickets  after  the  fair  lands  he  has  traversed  in  his 
homeward  flight ! 

For  his  comrades  who  linger  by  the  way,  the  orange- 
groves  are  sweet  on  the  steep  slopes  of  Sorrento,  the 
sun  is  warm  upon  the  Pincian  Hill. 

It  was  but  yesterday  that  he,  too,  felt  the  hot  breath  of 
Vesuvius,  lingered  among  its  sunny  vineyards,  or  sang 
in  the  green  lanes  that  vein  the  warm  heart  of  Apennine. 

He  may  have  loitered,  perhaps,  in  the  lovely  wilder- 
ness that  day  by  day  grows  wilder  still  round  the 
neglected  villa  in  the  Sabine  Hills. 

Resistless,  indeed,  is  the  charm  of  its  cool  arcades 
and  stately  cypresses,  the  ceaseless  plash  of  its  waters, 
the  breath  of  its  blossoming  trees.  Endless  is  the 
beauty  of  its  tangled  ways,  where  dripping  statues 
of  river-gods  lie  half  hidden  in  the  tall  reeds,  where 


64  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

graceful  nymphs  peer  shyly  out  through  the  wild 
orange-trees. 

Listen  !  how  in  the  dark  thickets  the  blackcaps  sing ! 

To  them,  too,  it  is  a  garden  of  delight,  a  lotos-land 

too  fair  to  leave.     And  among  the  broken  music  of 

their  dulcet  strains  the  ear  of  fancy  feigns  the  chorus — 

'  We  will  return  no  more.' 

Do  they  ever  sing  to  each  other  here  in  this  sober 
English  woodland  of  that  paradise  that,  stretching  far 
along  those  sunny  slopes,  makes  the  wreck  of 
Hadrian's  magnificent  villa  more  glorious  now  in 
the  splendour  of  its  ruin  than  when  the  stout-hearted 
Emperor  died  unwept  upon  the  shore  at  Baise  ? 

Its  costly  marbles  are  scattered  to  the  winds,  but 
the  ivy  and  the  creeper  have  draped  with  rarer  beauty 
the  ruined  arches  with  their  bright  festoons  ;  flower 
and  fern  have  crowned  the  crumbling  walls  with 
waving  plumes. 

And  in  place  of  rare  mosaics,  once  the  wonder  of 
the  world,  the  warm  sun  of  April  has  scattered  bright 
anemones — crimson,  white,  and  blue — broadcast  in 
the  rich  green  grass. 

And  in  the  roofless  halls,  where  once  in  peerless 
beauty  shone  the  triumphs  of  the  sculptor's  art,  the 
coronella,  mingling  with  the  dark  foliage  of  the  ilex, 
droops  its  scented  gold.  The  wind  that  wanders 
through  the  silent  corridors  is  heavy  with  the  breath 
of  flowers. 

Across  the  sunny  spaces  in  the  ruins  flit   bright- 


When  all  the  World  is  Young.  65 

winged  butterflies,  resting  on  the  sweet  lips  of  an 
orchis,  or  on  the  crimson  petals  of  a  cyclamen. 

And  everywhere,  like  the  genii  of  the  place,  innu- 
merable lizards,  clouded  with  exquisite  tones  of  brown 
and  green,  sun  themselves  on  every  stone,  and  cling 
to  the  rough  bark  of  the  ancient  olive-trees,  and  at 
the  sound  of  footsteps  vanish  swift  as  thought  into 
unsuspected  crannies  in  the  walls. 

At  times  a  dark  snake,  basking  on  a  heap  of  frag- 
ments overgrown  with  thyme,  and  borage,  and  cycla- 
men, uncoils  its  dusky  folds  and  glides  rustling  away. 

At  times  there  floats  upon  the  quiet  air  the  music 
of  the  nightingale. 

Everywhere  among  the  ilex  thickets  sounds  the 
blackcap's  song.  The  little  singers  have  reached  the 
limit  of  their  wanderings  ;  they  will  never  pass  beyond 
the  gray  fringe  of  olives  that  skirts  the  rugged  hills. 

No  note  of  discord  breaks  the  quiet  of  their  rest. 
The  god  of  silence,  long  since  borne  from  his  neglected 
shrine,  sits  forlorn  amid  the  stir  of  Rome ;  but  still 
his  reign  endures,  broken  only  by  hushed  footfalls  on 
the  turf,  by  rustle  of  timid  creatures  in  the  grass,  by 
sigh  of  wind,  or  song  of  nightingale. 

What  wonder  if,  amid  the  peace  and  beauty  of  this 
fair  retreat,  the  wanderers  should  pause  from  their 
weary  journey,  fold  their  tired  wings,  and  sing  in 
plaintive  tone — 

'  — Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave ;  we  will  no  longer  roam.' 

5 


THE    POSTERN    GATE. 

ABROAD  and  well-kept  highway  winds  down  this 
quiet  glen.  Noble  woods,  whose  fresh  young 
leafage  brightens  in  the  sweet  May  weather,  clothe  the 
sides  of  the  ravine,  and  far  in  among  the  green  depths 
all  day  the  birds  are  singing. 

But  the  trees  stand  back  for  the  most  part  behind 
a  fringe  of  fields.  The  flowers  that  light  the  shadows 
about  the  feet  of  the  tall  beeches  look  down  from  a 
distance  on  the  wistful  eyes  of  the  wayfarer. 

Bright  butterflies  flit  across  in  the  sunshine,  and  toy 
and  circle  in  the  air,  and  seem  like  points  of  light 
against  the  living  green. 

Now  and  then  a  jay  drifts  overhead  to  her  nest 
among  the  trees  that  <#ng  to  the  steep  sides  of  the 
valley. 

From  the  larches  on  the  hill  the  soft  voices  of 
ringdoves  ripple  downward  through  the  dreamy  air. 

Out  of  the  hedgerows,  that,  with  their  lavish  flowers, 
their  ivy-clad  tree-roots,  and  their  wealth  of  green,  are 
the  very  outposts  of  the  wood,  shy  field  mice  creep 


The  Postern  Gate.  69 

out  in  the  gloaming,  and  frisk  along  the  strip  of  grass 
that  skirts  the  highway ;  perhaps  a  weasel  may  run 
hastily  across,  and  shrews  are  faintly  heard  among  the 
tangle  of  the  banks. 

But  the  real  life  of  the  woodland  is  still  unseen ; 
save  for  their  voices,  the  tenants  of  the  sylvan  sanc- 
tuaries make  little  sign. 

Along  the  broad  paths  that  have  been  cleared 
through  the  thickets  you  may  draw  nearer  to  the 
tenants  of  the  wood.  /  Through  the  bushes  peer  the 
bright  eyes  of  rabbits ;  the  ground  is  scratched  and 
scarred  by  their  industrious  feet ;  the  light  earth 
from  their  burrows  is  heaped  high  under  the  hazels. 
From  a  rocky  hollow  overhung  with  holly  boughs  a 
blackbird  dashes  out ;  there  is  her  nest,  deftly  cradled 
in  a  coil  of  knotted  ivy-stems.  A  wren,  too,  a  mere 
ball  of  brown,  seems  to  fall  from  an  ivied  tree-stump, 
and  goes  singing  down  the  path  before  you. 

Now  the  pathway  wanders  along  under  the  hill  in 
the  shade  of  stately  beeches,  wearing  now  their  very 
loveliest  of  May  attire.  Clustering  fir-trees  mingle 
their  dark  foliage  with  the  graceful  plumes  of  the 
larch.  :  In  a  yew  bough  drooping  low,  a  pair  of  gold- 
crests  have  woven,  among  the  slender  twigs,  their  tiny 
nest 

Still  greener  grows  the  path.  The  foot  falls  noise- 
less on  the  mossy  way.  A  wood-warbler  swinging 
overhead,  conscious  of  no  intrusion,  utters  now  nnci 
then  his  hasty  little  gushes  of  song,  or  calls  with 


70  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

musical  tongue  to  some  distant  comrade  of  the  green- 
wood. <  The  ringdove,  brooding  on  her  white  eggs 
among  the  ivy,  hears  you  not  till  you  are  close  beneath 
her  tree,  and  then  crashes  out  with  a  loud  clatter  of 
her  startled  wings. 

But  still,  you  are  only  on  the  threshold ;  not  yet 
have  you  reached  the  heart  of  the  woodland.  Only 
to  him  who  steals  silently  along  by  unfrequented 
ways  the  timid  children  of  the  wood  reveal  their  secrets. 
Only  for  him  who  enters  by  the  postern  gate  are  the 
little  dramas  of  their  lives  laid  bare. 

There  is  no  broad  pathway  now,  no  entrance  well 
defined ;  the  thickets  are  tangled,  and  the  way  is 
rough. 

The  trunk  of  a  grey  old  ash-tree  hewn  down  long 
since,  and  left  forgotten  where  it  fell,  lies  half  buried 
in  the  soft  earth.  Shell-like  fungi,  marked  with 
delicate  wavy  lines  of  green  and  brown  and  yellow, 
cling  by  hundreds  to  the  crumbling  bark.  Strong 
sprays  of  bramble  arch  it  over.  Springing  leaves  of 
meadow-sweet  promise  a  canopy  of  fragrant  foam. 
Midsummer  will  hide  it  altogether  with  grass  and  fern, 
and  broad  leaves  of  the  burdock. 
'  And  like  some  huge  rock  that  winter  storm  has 
hurled  into  a  mountain  stream,  the  old  tree  has  made 
more  devious  still  the  uncertain  path  that  wanders  idly 
through  the  bushes. 

On  either  side  rises  a  tall  elm  whose  boughs  lean 
down  to  sweep  the  very  ground. 


The  Posts  in  Gate.  71 

It  is  the  postern  gate.  Few  footsteps  enter  here. 
Even  the  keeper  seldom  puts  aside  the  guelder  rose 
and  the  maple  that  join  hands  to  bar  the  way.  The 
light  feet  of  the  sleek  brown  spaniel,  that  follows  him 
like  a  shadow,  rarely  rustle  in  these  deep  dead  leaves. 
The  very  rabbits,  astonished  here  to  meet  a  stranger, 
stand  at  gaze  a  moment  before  they  turn  to  fly. 

The  ground  is  green  with  broad  leaves  of  garlic, 
patches  of  wood-sanicle,  and  belts  of  the  enchanter's 
nightshade.  Orchis  and  bluebell,  primrose  and 
anemone,  woodspurge  and  pale  herb  paris  are  strewn 
broadcast  among  the  bushes  —  a  very  paradise  of 
flowers.  The  woodruff  already  begins  to  scent  the  air, 
and  the  sorrel  hangs  its  dainty  bells  by  hundreds 
among  the  moss  of  ancient  trees. 

Standing  here  among  the  sheltering  thickets  you 
begin  to  realize  how  full  the  woodland  is  of  life ;  how 
many  birds  they  are  that  sing  to  us  of  summer.  High 
above  them  all  sounds  the  cuckoo's  cry,  full  and 
clear  and  mellow,  and  with  no  suspicion  in  it  yet  of 
the  hoarseness  that  in  a  few  short  weeks  will  overtake 
him. 

Small  wonder  is  it  that  his  voice  should  fail ! 
Early  and  late  he  is  calling,  often  for  hours  together, 
with  hardly  a  pause  for  rest,  in  answer,  so  the  legends 
say,  now  to  love-sick  youth,  and  now  to  weary  age, 
each  asking  him  with  anxious  heart  the  same  question — 
'  How  long  must  I  wait  ?' 

He  is  sitting  now  on  the  very  summit  of  a  lofty 


72  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

ash,  whose  branches,  tipped  with  black  like  points  of 
charcoal,  show  yet  no  sign  of  budding  green.  Now  he 
takes  wing,  still  calling  as  he  flies,  pausing  now  and 
then  to  say  softly,  and  under  his  breath,  in  rapid 
notes,  '  hawk,  kok,  kak,  kikj  and  then  again  resumes 
his  clear  familiar  cry. 

Suddenly,  above  the  sweet  harmonies  of  the  wood, 
sounds  the  voice  of  a  starling,  copying  in  swift  succes- 
sion the  notes  of  jackdaw  and  yellow-hammer,  swallow 
and  missel-thrush. 

What  is  he  doing  here,  in  the  heart  of  the  wood  ? 
He  is  perched  in  one  of  a  group  of  beeches  that  lift 
their  stately  heads  high  above  the  thickets. 

You  are  just  beneath  the  tree,  hushing  as  best  you 
may  the  sound  of  your  movements  on  the  rustling 
leaves,  when  a  dead  stick  snaps  under  your  tread. 

The  starling  overhead  takes  wing  with  startled 
cry.  Another,  flying  out  from  lower  down,  betrays 
the  secret.  They  are  land-grabbers  ;  they  have  driven 
out  the  rightful  tenants,  and  taken  possession  of  their 
holding. 

The  old  trunk  is  scarred  and  pitted  by  the  beaks 
of  woodpeckers,  and  some  twenty  feet  from  the 
ground  is  the  hole  that  was  once  their  nest.  The 
round  entrance  bears  marks  of  age.  The  bark  has 
long  since  hidden  the  signs  of  the  miner's  tool.  The 
polished  sides  betray  the  passing  of  generations  of 
starlings. 

The  woodpeckers  have  found  another  home ;  they 


The  Postern  Gate.  73 

are  near  us  still,  and  at  times  you  may  hear  above 
the  rich  music  of  the  thrush,  and  in  the  pauses  of 
the  robin's  song,  their  bursts  of  laughter  ringing  clear 
and  loud. 

Over  the  hedge  that  skirts  the  lower  border  of  the 
wood  are  visible  the  straggling  apple  trees  of  a  neg- 
lected orchard.  Among  the  grey  boughs  a  redstart 
utters  now  and  then  his  unstudied  little  song.  You 
may  even  catch  the  sudden  flicker  of  red  as  the 
bright  little  bird  leaps  lightly  down  to  the  grass 
beneath  him. 

In  another  tree,  standing  rather  apart  from  the  rest, 
a  nuthatch  wanders  up  and  down,  calling  to  some 
companion — his  mate,  perhaps — who  answers  from 
one  of  the  sturdy  oaks  across  the  valley. 

Let  us  cross  the  strip  of  ploughed  land  to  the 
orchard,  where  the  bright  grass  is  brighter  still  with 
cuckoo-flower  and  cowslip,  and  look  at  the  tree. 

A  nuthatch  flies  out,  and  taking  refuge  in  the  pollard- 
ash  hard  by,  watches  anxiously  our  movements. 

Here  is  the  hole.  The  birds  have  found  the  open- 
ing too  large  to  suit  them,  and  have  been  plastering  it 
up  with  mud.  The  little  masons  have  laid  on  a  coat- 
ing more  than  an  inch  thick  already,  and  the  well- 
tempered  surface  is  dinted  all  over  with  the  marks  of 
their  sharp  bills. 

The  nest  itself  is  hardly  begun  yet— merely  a  hand 
ful  of  dry  leaves  about  a  foot  below  the  entrance. 

How  the  birds  are  singing  in  the  wood  !     A  score 


74  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

of  species,  at  least,  there  are  taking  more  or  less  part 
in  the  service. 

Not  always  is  the  harmony  unbroken.  In  the  inter- 
lacing boughs  of  the  two  elms,  beneath  whose  shade 
we  entered,  a  pair  of  missel-thrushes  have  built  their 
nest.  And  now,  when  a  magpie,  sweeping  down  from 
the  wood  above,  sails  idly  past  to  forage  in  the  fields, 
the  two  thrushes  dash  headlong  from  their  cover  to 
chase  the  foe  from  their  threshold. 

And  all  at  once,  with  the  shrieking  of  the  angry 
thrushes,  the  chatter  of  the  astonished  magpie — taken 
for  once  all  unaware — and  the  alarms  of  startled 
blackbirds,  the  wood  is  in  an  uproar. 

The  fugitive  dives  into  a  thicket ;  close  behind 
him  follow  his  pursuers.  He  seeks  refuge  in  the  air, 
but  they  follow  him  still,  scolding  him  with  shrill 
tongues,  and  buffeting  him  with  their  wings.  Not 
satisfied  with  driving  the  enemy  from  the  gate,  they 
chase  him  far  down  the  valley,  until  the  sounds  of 
conflict  die  away  in  the  distance,  and  quiet  settles 
down  once  more  upon  the  peaceful  wood. 

And,  as  if  by  way  of  contrast  to  these  notes  of 
discord,  there  rises  high  above  all  other  sounds  the 
song  of  an  unseen  nightingale.  A  moment  only  does 
he  sing.  There  are  but  a  few  bars  of  his  rare  and  ex- 
quisite melody,  and  he  is  heard  no  more. 

It  is  not  the  hour  for  hirn  yet.  But  when  the  light 
of  sunset  is  drawn  across  the  entrance  of  the  valley, 
when  fiery  clouds  are  red  through  the  pine-trees  on 


The  Postern  Gate.  75 

the  hill,  when  the  singers  of  the  daylight  grow  silent 
one  by  one,  there  will  rise  above  the  rush  of  the  far- 
off  stream 

'  The  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  among  the  alien  corn." 


AT    THE    BEND    OF    THE    RIVER. 


IT  is  the  time  when  leaves  are  greenest.  Summer 
has  begun  her  reign ;  Spring  is  vanishing  among 
the  trees. 

It  is  the  May-time  of  the  poets.  Surely  never  were 
there  whiter  sheets  of  daisies  in  the  pasture,  never 
blazed  so  bright  the  gorse  upon  the  hill,  never  shone 
the  meadows  with  such  wealth  of  gold.  Never  were 
woods  more  full  of  beauty,  skies  more  blue,  or  fields 
more  fair. 

We  will  hold  no  longer  by  the  saws  that  warned  us 
of  the  treachery  of  May,  of  her  fleeting  sunshine,  of 
her  fickle  moods.  She  is  a  queen,  a  goddess  born. 
Prophecies  of  evil  fall  on  heedless  ears  as  we  feel  our 
hearts  beat  high  in  answer  to  her  soft  caresses,  while 
her  breath  is  sweet  upon  our  heated  brows  ;  when  we 
think,  as  we  listen  in  the  twilight,  that  the  year  has 
lent  new  beauty  to  the  blackbird's  hymn,  that  there  is 
more  charm  than  ever  in  the  music  of  the  lark. 

It  is  a  day  of  golden  weather. 

A  haze  as  of  the  summer  broods  over  the  landscape, 


At  the  Bend  of  the  River.  77 

and  deepens  the  soft  blue  shadows  among  the  elms 
that  tower  into  the  dreamy  air. 

Here  behind  this  fringe  of  alders  no  breath  can 
reach  you  from  without ;  ever  the  warm  sun  beats 
down  upon  this  sea  of  boulders — the  playthings  of 
the  wild  river  in  far-off  days,  the  days  when  all  was 
young. 

As  you  bask  in  the  sunshine,  you  may  watch  at  will 
the  birds  that  haunt  this  quiet  nook ;  watch  the  dainty 
wagtails  wander  up  and  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
hear  the  musical  cry  of  the  sandpiper  borne  on  swift 
wings  down  the  shore,  see  the  dipper  flying  to  his  nest 
in  the  cool  and  moss-grown  hollow  in  the  rocks  across 
the  stream,  where  tasselled  sedges  clinging  to  the 
bank  below  lean  down  to  kiss  the  water,  and,  lightly 
touched  in  answer  by  the  careless  ripples,  keep  time 
for  ever  to  their  rhythmic  song. 

Higher  up,  at  the  bend  of  the  river,  where  it  widens 
out  over  the  rapids,  the  sunlight  plays  on  every  whirl 
and  eddy  of  the  swift-running  water  until  a  belt  of 
silver,  almost  too  bright  to  look  on,  quivers  among 
the  dark,  moss-tinted  stones. 

From  the  sparkling  shallows  tiny  trout  are  leaping 
in  the  sun,  and  over  the  water  is  poised  a  cloud  of 
gnats  in  shadowy  column,  ever  rising,  falling,  circling 
up  and  down,  the  hum  of  their  myriad  wings  unheard 
in  the  murmur  of  the  stream. 

Below  the  dipper's  nest  the  channel  narrows  be- 
tween the  rocks,  and  the  river  rushes  in  green  waves 


78  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

headlong  through,  to  widen  further  down  Li  a  deep, 
dark  pool  that  the  storms  of  ages  have  hollowed  in  its 
granite  bed. 

Tall  young  royal  ferns  fringe  with  pale  fronds  the 
wandering  shore.  The  steep  bank  is  crowned  with 
tangled  underwood  and  knotted  willow-roots,  in  whose 
shade  the  otters  come  by  night  and  plunge  down  into 
the  pool  below,  where  now  the  slow-moving  water 
lingers  by  the  shore  to  double  in  its  magic  glass  the 
beauty  of  the  broom. 

High  over  all  rises  a  belt  of  noble  woodland,  among 
whose  clustering  trees  you  may  catch  brief  glimpses 
of  warblers  stirring  in  the  bushes,  of  ring-doves  that 
forage  in  the  rustling  leaves. 

Now  a  whitethroat,  after  warbling  half  his  breathless 
little  madrigal  in  the  heart  of  a  thicket,  rises  high  in 
air,  as  if  upborne  by  the  resistless  impulse  of  his  happy 
soul,  singing  all  the  while ;  and  then,  the  music  ended, 
he  dives  headlong  downwards  into  the  green  depths 
to  sit  again  beside  his  mate.  You  watch  his  flight, 
but  the  song  itself  can  hardly  reach  you  here  across 
the  river.  The  air  is  full  already  of  soft  and  soul-like 
sound. 

Over  all  other  voices  swells  the  ceaseless  murmur  of 
the  river.  At  times  is  faintly  heard  the  mingled  music 
of  the  birds  far  up  the  slope  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees,  the  stir  of  leaves  that  flutter  overhead,  the  soft 
sighing  of  the  wind  that  ever  lightly  stirs  along  the 
stream.  Yes, 


At  the  Bend  of  the  River.  79 

•  There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass. 
Music  that  gentler  on  the  spirit  lies 
Than  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes.' 

Above  the  gentler  sounds  breaks  in  at  times  the 
shrill  call  of  a  pheasant.  His  mate  and  he  wander  in 
the  covers  idle  and  disconsolate.  Other  tenants  of 
the  wood  are  toiling  for  their  children's  bread ;  their 
work  is  taken  from  them. 

Even  now,  among  the  coops  scattered  along  the 
sunny  slope  of  the  paddock  on  the  hill,  the  keeper  has 
his  hands  full  with  the  foster-mothers  and  their  tender 
charge. 

When  the  young  broods  are  strong  and  are  driven 
to  the  woods,  they  will  meet  their  rightful  parents  as 
strangers  altogether. 

A  brief  life  at  best  is  theirs.  A  single  summer 
among  the  green  wilderness  of  this  quiet  valley,  and 
then,  some  cool  October  morning,  swift  fate  will  over- 
take them,  and  struck  down,  perhaps  by  the  very  hand 
that  now  with  jealous  care  protects  them,  they  will  fall, 
dying  on  the  dying  leaves. 

Suddenly  there  comes  a  shadow  on  the  water,  and 
a  slow,  stately  beat  of  wings. 

A  heron  drifts  by  along  the  river,  nor  dreams  that 
strange  eyes  see  him  pass.  His  long  legs  trail  behind 
him;  his  sharp  beak  is  sunk  upon  his  breast.  He 
is  so  near  that  you  may  see  every  tone  of  grey  and 
white  and  black  among  his  plumage,  the  long  feathers 


8o  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

that  droop  upon  his  breast,  the  dark  plume  upon  his 
head,  the  yellow  stains  upon  his  cruel  bill. 

No  thought  of  danger  ruffles  his  calm,  cold  heart, 
or  quickens  by  a  single  beat  the  movements  of  his 
mighty  wings.  With  slow,  deliberate  flight  he  sweeps 
along,  almost  touching  the  water  as  he  flies. 

He  has  reached  the  bend  of  the  river.  He  is  gone, 
uttering,  just  before  he  vanished  behind  the  green  wall 
of  alders,  a  muttered  croak,  as  if  satisfied,  on  nearing 
his  favourite  strip  of  sand,  to  find  no  brother  angler 
on  the  ground  before  him. 

A  couple  of  lapwings,  disturbed  perhaps  by  his 
approach,  rise  above  the  trees,  and  after  circling  idly 
once  or  twice  across  the  river,  fly  off  towards  their 
haunt  among  the  hills. 

Their  work  is  over  for  the  season.  The  young  lap- 
wings, who  can  run  as  soon  as  they  are  out  of  the 
shell,  and  quickly  learn  to  find  a  living  for  themselves, 
return  no  more  at  night  to  the  shelter  of  their  mother's 
wings. 

Here  among  the  hills  of  Devon  you  may  see  little 
of  these  active  dwellers  on  the  heath.  But  in  the 
heart  of  Mendip,  perhaps,  where  the  spaces  are  less 
vast,  you  may  chance  on  a  little  company  not  yet 
scattered  to  the  winds. 

It  is  a  lonely  spot.  The  great  gorge  has  died  away 
on  the  edge  of  the  moor.  The  King  of  Mendip,  with 
his  crown  of  barrows,  lifts  broad  shoulders  far  along 
the  sky-line.  The  slopes  are  brown  and  bare,  save 


At  the  Bend  of  the  River.  81 

where  forests  of  young  bracken  light  the  long  sweeps 
of  sad-coloured  hills. 

In  the  distance  are  the  roofless  buildings  of  a  de- 
serted mine.  Everywhere  in  this  great  hollow  the 
ground  is  rough  and  broken  in  the  search  for  ore — 
turned  and  re-turned  by  the  miners  of  two  thousand 
years. 

Now  over  all  is  a  silence  as  of  the  grave.  No  sign 
of  life  is  there,  except  a  party  of  lapwings  that  wheel 
and  tumble  in  the  air  after  the  manner  of  their  kind, 
and  cry  now  and  then  in  plaintive  tone. 

Some  on  the  ground  take  wing  as  you  draw  near ; 
but  two  remain,  until  you  can  see  their  long  curved 
crests  and  the  green  and  chestnut  markings  of  their 
glossy  plumage.  Then  they  too  rise,  and  sail  reluct- 
antly away. 

As  you  stand  a  moment  to  watch  their  flight  across 
the  sky  you  suddenly  become  aware  of  a  tiny  moving 
figure  hurrying  up  the  slope  after  the  old  birds.  A 
young  peewit,  no  doubt.  It  stops.  You  note  the 
place  with  care,  and  walk  straight  up  to  the  spot; 
when,  lo !  there  is  no  bird  to  be  seen.  Some  clods  of 
earth,  indeed,  but  the  young  peewit  has  vanished  alto- 
gether. 

But  as  you  look  closer  at  the  clods  of  earth  some- 
thing in  their  shape  attracts  your  notice,  and  you  see, 
not  one  alone,  but  two  young  lapwings  crouching  flat 
in  the  short  grass  at  your  very  feet. 

Take  one  up  in  your  hand.  An  odd  little  object  he 

6 


82  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

is,  with  preposterously  long  legs,  a  coat  of  down 
marked  and  mottled  like  the  dry  earth  of  the  hill,  and 
absurd  little  winglets  like  the  flappers  of  a  seal.  When 
you  set  him  down  upon  the  grass  again  he  toddles  off 
a  little  way  on  his  long,  ungainly  legs,  pauses  a  moment 
to  cry  for  help  with  the  voice  of  an  anxious  kitten,  and 
then  makes  off  up  the  hill  as  fast  as  he  may. 

His  comrade  rises,  too,  and  follows,  and  the  two 
quaint  little  figures  climb  safely  up  the  slope  and  dis- 
appear. 

The  old  birds,  too,  have  vanished,  and  even  these 
gleams  of  life  have  faded  from  the  dreary  moorland. 

For  ages,  perhaps,  the  lapwings  have  returned  each 
spring-time  to  this  broad  hollow  in  the  hills.  Year  by 
year  their  haunt  among  the  rushes  remains  undis- 
turbed. 

Not  always  did  such  stillness  brood  over  this  voice- 
less waste.  The  brake  grows  high  where  once  the 
legions  trod.  These  mounds  and  hollows  are  the 
ghosts  of  a  forgotten  town.  Its  very  name  has 
perished. 

But,  in  all  the  fields  about,  the  plough  turns  up 
bright  shards  of  pottery,  that  bear  in  bold  relief  figures 
of  fighting  legionaries,  or  stories  of  the  chase. 

Even  in  our  own  time  the  labourer's  spade  still 
brings  to  light  hoarded  handfuls  of  denarii ;  clashes 
still  on  sling-bolt  and  spear-head,  on  broken  amphora 
and  rusted  sword. 

Corroded  sheets  of  lead  record  that  the  levies  of 


At  the  Bend  of  the  River.  83 

Antonine  tamed,  for  a  space  at  least,  the  wild  tribes 
of  the  hills.  No  further  clue  to  their  history  remains. 
No  other  hint  of  their  victory  or  defeat.  No  word  to 
tell  whether  their  dark  Armenian  captain  passed  in 
safety  through  the  perils  of  the  war,  or  whether,  on 
some  hill-top  near,  his  ashes  lie — 

'  Heaped  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 
Two  handfuls  of  white  dust  shut  in  an  urn  of  brass.' 


THEIR    FIRST    APPEARANCE.' 

THERE  is  no  time  in  all  the  year  in  which  some 
young  birds  do  not  begin  to  earn  their  first 
experience. 

Sparrows  and  starlings  sometimes  leave  the  nest 
in  the  very  depth  of  winter.  Robins  have  been 
hatched  at  Christmas.  Waterton  found  in  Decem- 
ber even  a  young  owlet  wearing  still  its  dress  of  down. 

But  it  is  now,  when  woods  are  greenest,  now  in  the 
warm  June  weather,  that  the  tide  of  life  is  rising  to 
the  full.  Now  it  is  that  we  hear  on  every  side,  from 
hedge  and  tree  and  housetop,  the  childish  voices  of 
the  young  poets  of  the  air. 

Not  a  tithe  of  all  the  gathering  multitudes  can  ever 
see  a  second  season.  For  the  weasel  and  the  sparrow- 
hawk,  the  caitiff  crow  and  all  his  brother  bandits,  will 
hold  high  revel  in  the  covers. 

Were  it  not  for  the  balance  which  is  thus  maintained, 
we  should  be  overrun  altogether  by  crowds  of  hungry 
birds. 

Nature  manages  her  own  affairs  much  better  than 


Their  First  Appearance.  85 

we  can,  with  our  tinkering  interference.  If  hawks 
were  spared  and  magpies  left  in  peace,  we  should 
hear  very  little  about  plagues  of  small  birds. 

Even  the  owl,  impelled  by  the  needs  of  her  nest- 
lings to  start  on  the  chase  somewhat  earlier  in  the 
day  than  usual,  may  pick  up  a  casual  youngster  here 
and  there  that  happens  to  come  in  her  way. 

It  is  very  little,  however,  that  owls  do  in  this  direc- 
tion. The  very  hours  they  keep  ensure  their  paying 
attention  more  to  fur  than  feather,  and  careful  ex- 
amination of  the  rejected  remains  of  food  that  accumu- 
late in  their  haunts  has  proved  again  and  again  that 
birds  form  a  very  small  part  indeed  of  their  customary 
diet. 

The  eagle  owl,  indeed,  has  been  known  to  bring 
home  partridges  and  blackcock,  and  even  dead  lambs. 

But  the  eagle  owl  is  a  stranger  here ;  when  he  does 
pay  us  a  visit,  he  mee.s  with  a  reception  that  precludes 
all  hope  of  his  return. 

The  owlets  who  were  hatched  in  the  early  days  of 
May  are  hardly  ready  yet  to  join  the  twilight  forays  of 
their  elders.  An  odd-looking  crew  they  are,  huddled 
together  in  their  hollow  tree.  Even  the  old  bird  is  a 
ludicrous  object. 

But,  after  all,  the  eyes  of  day  have  no  business  with 
the  bird  of  night.  It  is  only  in  the  twilight  that  he 
wakens  into  life.  Sallying  out  at  dusk  from  his  snug 
retreat  in  tower  or  tree,  he  floats  like  a  phantom  over 
the  fields  on  his  soft  and  soundless  wings  ;  or,  perched 


86  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

in  one  of  the  tall  elms  on  the  edge  of  the  meadow, 
startles  the  stillness  with  his  mellow  call. 

To  the  owlet  spreading  for  the  first  time  his  downy 
wings  to  leave  the  shelter  of  his  home,  the  outer 
world  is  altogether  strange  and  new. 

Ever,  indeed,  will  he  look  upon  the  landscape  with 
other  eyes  than  ours.  For  him  the  shadow  goes 
backward  on  the  dial.  The,  fire  of  sunset  is  to  him 
the  light  of  dawn ;  his  day,  the  silent  hours  of  night 
lit  with  cold  stars  or  keen  full  moon. 

Some  birds  there  are  who  early  in  their  young 
experience  learn  something  of  the  stir  of  life.  Young 
kingfishers,  hatched  in  the  darkness  of  their  tunnel, 
come  to  the  entrance  and  look  out  long  before  their 
wings  are  grown.  They  grow  familiar  with  the  hum  of 
the  mill  and  the  dreamy  plash  of  the  old  wheel,  they 
watch  the  play  of  ripples  round  the  stones,  they  see 
the  cloud  of  minnows  dart  like  arrows  up  the 
stream. 

But  to  the  young  jackdaws  in  the  tower  the  world 
at  present  means  no  more  than  a  grim  Norman  wall, 
a  brief  stretch  of  narrow,  time-worn  stair,  a  single 
gleam  of  daylight  overhead. 

The  whole  ascent  is  strewn  with  piles  of  sticks  and 
heather.  Above  the  belfry,  the  way  is  blocked  en- 
tirely by  the  great  nests  that  the  old  birds  have  heaped 
even  four  feet  high  upon  the  ancient  steps. 

And  now  the  time  approaches  when  the  dark-coated 
nestlings  begin  to  scramble  off  their  nests,  and 


Their  First  Appearance.  87 

flutter  up  the  winding  stair  towards  that  narrow 
chink  above  them.  They  have  heard  but  little  yet 
of  the  stir  of  life,  beyond  the  hum  of  the  village  or  the 
clangour  of  the  bells. 

Now  they  look  down  upon  a  great  world  far  below 
them,  a  world  of  blossoming  orchards  and  rich 
meadow  lands.  It  is  their  first  sight  of  tree  or  sun 
or  sky. 

Four  grey  heads  look  anxiously  down  from  the 
narrow  threshold.  Their  elders  all  the  while  are 
wheeling  round  the  tower,  floating  now  and  then 
near  by  as  if  to  tempt  the  timid  aeronauts  to  make 
that  first  perilous  plunge. 

One  of  them  gathers  heart  and  flutters  out.  He 
gains  the  footing  of  one  of  the  gargoyles  that  the 
barbarous  '  restorers '  have  spared  to  the  grey  old 
pile,  while  all  the  neighbours  shout  a  chorus  of  en- 
couragement. Another  spreads  his  wings  and  alights 
on  a  battered  scrap  of  carving  on  the  wall. 

Now  all  four  have  passed  the  brink,  and  one  by 
one  they  gain  the  battlement  of  the  tower,  fluttering 
from  point  to  point,  until  at  last  they  muster  courage 
to  trust  themselves  upon  the  yielding  air,  and  follow 
their  parents  to  the  fields  below. 

It  is  a  strange  collection  of  materials  that  the 
jackdaw  loves  to  accumulate  in  its  untidy  nest. 
Sticks  and  paper,  carpet  and  cowhair,  bits  of  cloth 
and  scraps  of  string,  are  all  made  use  of. 

Most  birds  that  are  hangers-on  of  men,  and  find  a 


88  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

living  in  the  farm-yard  or  the  street,  are  ready  to  avail 
themselves  of  the  handiwork  of  their  suzerain  in  the 
construction  of  their  nests. 

(  A  stray  end  of  string  or  worsted  used  in  this  way  as 
building  material  has,  ere  now,  brought  dire  disaster 
on  the  unfortunate  architects.  One  old  bird  even 
contrived  to  hang  itself  in  a  loop  of  worsted.  Young 
sparrows,  snared  by  the  lining  of  the  nest,  have  been 
imprisoned  until  late  in  the  winter,  fed  all  the  while 
by  faithful  relatives,  until  some  kindly  hand  released 
them  from  their  bondage. 

Although  many  broods  are  fledged  already,  and 
many  more  will  soon  have  taken  wing,  there  are  not 
a  few  birds  that  still  possess  their  souls  in  patience, 
warming  their  unhatched  eggs. 

The  kestrel,  in  her  crevice  in  the  cliff,  has  heard  no 
faint  note  of  life  beneath  her  sheltering  feathers. 

Still  the  goldcrest  is  swinging  in  her  snug  green 
hammock  among  the  dark  leafage  of  the  churchyard 
yew.  A  tiny  nest  it  is  to  hold  so  much.  A  family  of 
eight  have  to  find  room  in  it,  under  their  mother's 
wings.  But  they  are  a  tiny  race ;  five  of  them  full- 
grown  would  not  amount  altogether  to  a  single 
ounce. 

Less  fettered  still  are  the  swifts,  whose  labours 
have  hardly  even  yet  begun.  Still  on  their  untiring 
wings  they  career  with  joyous  screams  across  the 
sky. 

Astir  before  the  day  begins  to  glimmer  in  the  east, 


Their  First  Appearance.  89 

on  the  wing  through  the  hot  summer  noon,  still  flying 
when  the  glow  of  sunset  has  faded  from  the  sea,  all 
day  long  they  wander  in  the  air. 

The  nest  of  the  swift  shows  but  little  art  in  its  con- 
struction, nor  is  it  always,  indeed,  the  work  of  the  bird 
itself.  It  will,  occasionally  at  least,  appropriate  a 
house-sparrow's  nest,  whether  occupied  or  not ;  and 
more  than  once  has  a  brood  of  young  sparrows  been 
seen  which  had  apparently  been  turned  out  by  the 
swifts  and  left  to  perish  on  the  ground. 

The  sparrow,  for  his  part,  is  much  addicted  to 
seizing  on  the  nest  of  a  swallow — more  frequently  still 
on  that  of  a  house-martin,  even  when  just  new  from 
the  hands  of  the  builders. 

It  has  often  been  said  that  the  aggrieved  owners 
have  been  known  to  call  in  the  assistance  of  sympathiz- 
ing neighbours,  and  that  the  assembled  troop  have 
then  walled  up  the  unfortunate  sparrows — to  die  of 
starvation  in  their  ill-gotten  hold.  Happily,  however, 
for  the  reputation  of  the  martin,  it  is  very  doubtful 
if  there  is  any  real  authority  for  the  story. 

Swifts  seem  unusually  abundant  this  year  (1889), 
but  swallows  and  martins  have  come  back  to  us  in 
sadly  diminished  numbers. 

The  reason  for  this  difference  is  not  far  to  seek. 
The  dark  plumage  of  the  swift  has  no  charm  in  the 
eyes  of  the  high-born  beauties,  for  whose  adornment 
so  many  thousand  lives  have  been  sacrificed  this 
spring. 


90  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

The  destruction  of  swallows  has,  indeed,  been  most 
lamentable.  The  report  recently  presented  to  the 
Zoological  Society  of  France,  after  describing  how  the 
birds  are  taken,  and  for  what  purpose  they  are  killed, 
urges  that  the  French  Government  should  interfere  to 
protect  a  race  whose  services  to  man  are  beyond  all  cal- 
culation. So  great  has  been  already  the  havoc  made 
that  there  are  parts  of  France  where  the  swallow, 
once  numerous,  is  now  unknown.  '  If  this  destruction 
goes  on  for  a  few  years  longer,'  continues  the  report, 
'  France  will  in  ten  years  have  no  more  swallows 
except  in  her  collections.' 

Unhappily  for  us,  the  homeward  path  of  our 
migrants  lies  through  France,  and  thus  it  happens 
that  our  own  particular  birds  are  killed  in  thousands 
on  the  Mediterranean  coast  as  they  alight  spent  and 
breathless  on  the  land. 

The  most  destructive  means  employed  is  the 
treacherous  wire,  on  which  the  tired  travellers  too 
trustfully  alight,  and  are  slain  wholesale  by  an  electric 
discharge. 

This  is  a  swift,  and  perhaps  a  painless  death,  but 
the  report  alludes  also  to  snares  and  even  hooks.  One 
shudders  to  think  of  the  little  creatures  fluttering  in 
agony  upon  a  baited  hook — for  what  ?  To  furnish  an 
adornment  for  some  Parisian  belle  '  all  gentleness, 
mercy,  and  pity.' 

This  is  the  reason  why  this  year  so  many  of  us  miss 
the  pleasant  twitter  of  the  martins  round  our  eaves  ; 


Their  First  Appearance.  gi 

why  the  nests  where  we  have  so  often  seen  them 
cling  are  crumbled  and  deserted.  This  is  why  the 
swallows  come  no  more  to  their  nests  among  the 
rafters. 

How  dark  to  us  would  be  the  dawn  of  spring  if 
on  the  empty  sky  we  should  watch  for  them  in  vain  ! 
How  cold  the  summer  days  in  which  we  heard  no 
more  their  snatches  of  sweet  song,  nor  caught  the 
glitter  of  their  sunny  wings  !  They  would  be  to  us  as 
to  the  poet  the  vanished  faces  of  his  friends — 

*  Something  is  gone  from  Nature  since  they  died, 
And  summer  is  not  summer,  nor  can  be.' 


THE    GIFT    OF    SONG. 


:,,-", 


THE  time  of  song  is 
overpast.  The  long 
summer  days,  with  all  their 
glory  of  leaves  and  flowers 
and  fragrance,  have  lost  the  .^^v 
crowning  touch  of  melody, 
and  there  is  more  of  clamour  than 


of  music  in  the 


sounds  that  stir  the  stillness  of  the  wood. 


The  Gift  of  Song.  93 

The  anthem  of  the  thrush,  indeed,  to  which  with 
eager  ears  we  listened  even  in  the  dark  days  of 
January,  is  sounding  for  us  still.  The  whistle  of  the 
blackbird,  that  gathered  strength  in  the  bright  days  of 
April,  and  reached  its  prime  in  the  splendour  of  a 
perfect  May,  in  woodland  walks  and  garden  alleys, 
echoes  still.  Still  the  chaffinch  sings,  and  the  wren- 
Still  the  blackcap  makes  sweet  music  in  the  green 
aisles  of  the  wood. 

But  we  hear  no  more  the  white-throat  and  the 
willow-wren,  the  redstart,  and  all  the  inconstant 
troubadours  who  came  to  us  from  the  warm  south. 
•  The  nightingale  is  silent  altogether.  The  general 
verdict  ranks  him  first  of  all  the  tuneful  train.  And 
when  his  heart  is  in  his  singing  there  is  none  to 
match  him  of  all  sweet  minstrels  of  the  wood  or  field. 

But  he  is  a  wilful  singer.  Many  a  night  he  holds 
his  peace  altogether,  or  sings  a  few  brief  bars,  and 
then  is  silent.  And  there  is  always  for  him  the  charm 
of  the  hour,  the  glamour  of  '  serene  and  quiet  nights 
when  all  the  heavens  are  fair.' 

We  pass,  by  the  well-remembered  gate,  into  the 
shadows  of  the  wood.  The  path  that  winds  through 
the  thickets  is  hardly  seen  under  its  canopy  of  hazel 
and  of  briar.  The  trees  are  still.  There  is  no  sound 
but  the  low  murmur  of  some  distant  owl,  or  the  faint 
rustlings  of  night-wandering  creatures  on  the  withered 
leaves. 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  darkness  close  at  hand,  there 


94  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

rise  a  few  loud  notes  that  seem  to  cut  the  air  with 
keen  clear  tone. 

That  is  the  prelude.  And  then  follow  the  liquid 
warble,  the  plaintive  monotone,  the  silvery  trill — all 
the  beauty  of  that  wonderful  song  that  poets  in  all 
ages  have  delighted  to  honour. 

And  although  Audubon  claimed  the  mocking-bird 
as  the  chief  of  singers  ;  though  to  the  fancy  of  Linnaeus 
sweeter  seemed  the  warble  of  the  redwing ;  though  to 
the  colonist  of  New  Zealand  the  organ-bird  surpasses 
all  the  half-forgotten  songsters  of  his  native  land,  the 
nightingale,  at  his  best,  need  fear  no  rival. 

In  so  long  a  composition  it  is  not  surprising  that 
there  should  be  constant  variations,  and  indeed  it  is 
probable  that  few  birds  repeat  their  songs  without 
alteration.  Even  the  chiffchaff  constantly  varies  the 
arrangement  of  his  simple  notes,  and  the  chaffinch  is 
for  ever  changing  the  position  of  the  trills  in  his 
polished  little  ditty,  and  the  number  of  notes  in  the 
flourish  at  the  end. 

A  bird  like  the  sedge-warbler — who  weaves  together 
any  songs  to  which  he  listens,  and  who  copies  all  with 
equal  skill — brings  endless  changes  into  his  song, 
though  it  lacks  the  vigour  and  expression  of  more 
original  composers. 

He,  too,  sings  in  the  twilight,  though,  like  the 
nightingale,  you  may  hear  him  all  the  livelong  day. 

His  haunt  is  by  the  stream  that  loiters  through  the 
meadows,  or  among  the  reeds  along  the  ditch  over- 


The  Gift  of  Song.  95 

grown  with  bitter-sweet  and  iris,  where,  in  the  shelter 
of  some  low  willow  bush,  his  mate  and  he  may  weave 
the  fragile  nest.  The  water-rat  ploughs  a  labyrinth  of 
paths  through  the  mantling  weed;  the  rail  wanders 
silently  in  the  hollows  under  the  bank ;  even  the 
heron  folds  at  nightfall  here  his  broad  grey  wings. 

Here,  there  sounds  among  the  reeds  the  twitter  of  a 
swallow ;  then  a  sparrow  chatters  in  the  grass ;  among 
the  willow-roots  rises  a  bar  or  two  from  even  the  carol 
of  the  lark.  That  is  the  sedge- warbler's  song ;  a  quiet 
strain,  subdued  and  soft  like  the  plain  tones  of  his 
plumage. 

Most  musical  birds,  indeed,  are  plainly  dressed,  and 
brilliant  feathers  are  rarely  associated  with  the  gift  of 
song. 

The  parrots,  brave  in  gold  and  scarlet,  green  and 
azure,  cannot  raise  a  song  among  them,  unless  we 
dignify  by  such  a  name  the  warbling  of  the  para- 
keets. 

Perhaps  none  of  all  the  feathered  tribes  are  more 
exquisitely  tinted  than  the  humming-birds,  and  yet 
among  some  four  hundred  species  there  is  only  one 
who  sings  at  all. 

Of  the  Birds  of  Paradise  we  know  very  little. 
There  are  species  of  which  only  a  single  specimen  has 
ever  been  seen  by  Europeans.  Not  even  the  natives 
of  the  wild  islands  of  their  strange  shallow  sea  know 
anything  of  the  nest  or  eggs  of  any  one  of  the  species. 
But  crows  they  are  for  all  their  beauty,  and  t^ose  who 


96  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

have  listened  to  their  voices  say  that  their  speech 
betrays  them. 

According  to  the  method  of  the  Swedish  naturalist 
Sundevall  about  one-fourth  of  all  known  birds  are 
placed  together,  in  a  class  called  Osa'nes,  at  the  head 
of  the  list. 

In  this  division  are  reckoned  the  warblers,  thrushes, 
larks,  linnets,  and  finches— in  fact,  all  the  birds  that 
sing,  as  well  as  a  good  many,  such  as  the  crow  and  his 
clan,  which  are  not  musical  at  all. 

Birds  outside  this  pale  have  no  gift  of  song  what- 
ever. We  listen  with  delight  to  the  cooing  of  the 
dove,  to  the  cry  of  the  cuckoo,  to  the  whistle  of  the 
plover,  but  none  of  these  rises  to  the  dignity  of  a 
song. 

It  is  considered  by  some  ornithologists  that  if  birds 
were  classified  according  to  their  brain-power,  their 
'wit  and  wisdom,'  and  the  completeness  of  their 
organization,  the  raven  would  take  the  first  place. 
And  although  his  natural  note  is  harsh  in  the  extreme, 
he  is  found  to  possess  the  muscles  of  song  in  a  high 
state  of  development. 

Once,  indeed,  according  to  the  legend,  he  was  a 
bird  of  rare  plumage  and  melodious  song.  But  his 
gifts  were  taken  from  him  by  the  gods  in  punishment 
for  vanity  and  disobedience. 

The  song-muscles,  however,  remain ;  and  this  is  no 
doubt  the  reason  why  the  raven  learns  to  copy  with 
such  startling  clearness  the  language  of  his  captors. 


The  Gift  of  Song.  97 

Too  often,  indeed,  his  speech  is  of  the  pit,  and  savours 
of  the  nether  world — not  altogether  out  of  harmony 
with  his  plumes  of  sable. 

Birds  of  Paradise,  no  doubt,  have  equal  powers  o.f 
utterance  ;  were  they  caught  and  trained,  their  language 
would  surely  be  more  in  keeping  with  their  bright 
attire. 

The  chatter  of  the  jackdaw  as,  when  work  is  over, 
he  wings  his  way  homeward  to  his  rest  among  the 
ruins,  has  something  almost  of  music  in  its  sound. 

Through  the  hours  of  daylight,  toiling  for  his  brood, 
the  daw  has  time  for  little  interchange  of  speech  beyond 
brief  monosyllabic  greetings  as  his  neighbours  pass. 
But  you  will  hear  him  better  when  the  shadows  gather 
in  the  valley,  when  the  light  of  sunset  lingers  on  the 
tracery  of  the  great  abbey  window,  and  streams  in 
glory  down  the  roofless  nave. 

From  the  quiet  lane  that  winds  upward  from  the 
river  you  look  back  to  watch  the  cloud  of  daws  drifting 
homeward  from  the  hill. 

Faintly  sound  their  voices  in  the  distance,  growing 
clearer  now,  as,  nearer  still  and  nearer,  float  their  dark 
figures  on  the  saffron  sky.  Now  they  pause  above  the 
ruin,  with  a  mingled  chorus  from  a  hundred  throats. 
Now  they  wheel  above  the  ancient  gables,  now  they 
flutter  down  and  vanish  in  unnumbered  niches ;  on 
alighting  in  dark  clusters  on  some  favourite  point, 
they  gossip  with  their  neighbours  before  turning  in. 

The  light  fades  slowly  from  the  ivied  walls.  The 

7 


98  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

swifts  no  longer  scream  down  the  dismantled  aisles. 

The   daws  are    silent ;  all    the   sounds  of  day    are 

hushed. 

Somewhere  in  the  valley  hoots  a  restless  owl,  linger- 
ing in  the  shadows  till  the  gloom  shall  deepen  in  the 
abbey. 

Overhead  a  ringdove  flutters  out  from  the  shelter  of 
a  yew-tree  that  leans  over  the  lane. 

Its  dark  boughs  overshadow  a  little  space  of  graves ; 
a  lonely  spot,  nestling  close  under  the  shelter  of  the 
hill  The  grass  grows  high  round  ancient  stones 
whose  rude  inscriptions  and  still  ruder  rhymes  hand 
down  the  names,  the  hopes,  the  fears  of  men  who  may 
have  watchtd  for  news  of  the  Armada  or  taken  sides 
with  King  or  Commons. 

There  is  a  half-suggested  war-note  in  the  quaintly 
ordered  lines  on  one  recumbent  slab  : 

INTERED    '   HE    '    LYETH    '   VNDER 

GROVND    '   VNTEL    '   THAT    '   DAY 

THE    '   TRVMPET    '   SOVND. 

Surely  it  is  Puritan  dust  over  which  a  fragment  lies 
bearing,  in  the  lettering  of  the  Stuart  time,  these  words 
alone : 

I    '   TREAD    '    SATAN    '   VNDER    '    MY    '    FEET. 

Hard  by,  upon  another  broken  stone,  is  traced  this 
brief  pathetic  phrase — 

AND    '   ONE    •   SWEET    '    SISTER    •   ALSO. 


The  Gift  of  Song.  99 

Were  they  two  children  of  the  village,  who,  still  fair 
and  young,  crossed  the  dark  river  hand  in  hand  ?  Was 
he  a  Cavalier,  who  burnt  his  heart  out  in  a  hopeless 
cause  ?  Did  the  news  of  Naseby  pale  her  cheek,  or 
silver  ere  its  time  her  auburn  hair  ? 

Did  he  pass  unscathed  the  perils  of  the  field  to  fall 
with  Keymiss  in  the  storming,  when  he  and  his  handful 
of  heroes  held  in  vain  the  fortress  down  the  river, 
whose  roofless  ruin,  now  a  very  bower  of  green,  looks 
down  into  the  wandering  Wye  ? 

And  had  he  long  to  wait  upon  'the  other  side'? 
Did  she  climb  alone  this  steep  path  between  the 
hedgerows,  day  by  day  with  slower  pace,  until  she 
came  no  more  to  grieve  over  that  dear,  dead  dust 
beneath  the  turf? 

Perhaps  there  was  the  same  soft  scent  of  roses  in 
the  air,  the  same  sweet  woodbine  incense  floating  in 
the  lane,  when  at  last  they  bore  her  gently  up  this 
narrow  way,  and  laid  her  sadly  at  his  side — one  grave, 
one  stone,  and  now,  one  epitaph. 

His  memory  is  lost ;  his  deeds,  his  very  name  for- 
gotten. No  note  remains,  except  the  link  with  her  in 
the  eloquent  silence  of  that  single  line — 

AND   *   ONE   *   SWEET  *   SISTER    *   ALSO. 


7— a 


FLOWER-DE-LUCE. 

'  Beautiful  lily,  dwelling  by  still  rivers, 

Or  solitary  mere, 

Or  where  the  sluggish  meadow-brook  delivevi 
Its  waters  to  the  weir.' 


IT  is  the  hour  of  noon. 
On  the  soft  azure  overhead  there  floats  no  fleck 
of  cloud.     The  sun  shines  hot  upon  the  meadows ;  over 
all  the  valley  lies  the  scent  of  hay. 

But  it  is  the  hour  of  rest. 

Sunbrowned  mowers,  with  faces  buried  in  the  short, 
cool  grass,  lie  quiet  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees.  No 
sound  of  labour  rises  from  the  fields,  no  stave  of  song, 
no  clink  of  whetted  scythe. 

The  white  houses  of  the  hillside  village  seem  to 
slumber  in  the  heat,  and  the  shadows  deepen  round 
their  immemorial  elms.  Against  the  haze  that  hangs 
along  the  hill,  the  old  tower  rises,  hardly  seen. 

The  very  birds  are  silent,  save  that  now  and  then 
some  restless  white-throat  sings  a  few  brief  notes,  or 
low-voiced  willow-wren  croons  in  the  alder  shade  a 
sleepy  tune. 


Flower-de-Luce.  101 

Only  the  insects  are  astir  :  bees  that  are  busy  in 
the  clover  blooms,  butterflies  that  lightly  float  from 
flower  to  flower,  burnet  moths  in  black  and  crimson 
that  flutter  lazily  along,  and  flies  innumerable,  that 
follow  everywhere  with  hateful  hum. 

Welcome  to-day  is  the  murmur  of  the  stream ;  cool 
the  plash  of  water  down  the  dripping  weir;  pleasant 
(f  the  pathway  that  through  bright,  scented  meadows 
follows  the  windings  of  the  river. 

No  rigid  lines  define  these  level  fields.  Their 
outlines,  traced  by  wandering  rivulets,  follow  lightly 
every  careless  curve,  now  broad,  now  narrow,  and 
with  many  a  shady  nook  and  sunny  corner,  loved  of 
birds  and  bright  with  flowers.  Along  the  margin  of 
the  meadow,  dark  belts  of  alder  stand,  their  sober  green 
relieved  with  fringe  of  willow  herb  and  marestail,  and 
brightened  with  broad  leaves  of  iris,  that  mark  with 
lamps  of  gold  the  hidden  streams. 

Troops  of  cattle,  weary  of  the  blaze  of  noon,  stand 
knee-deep  in  the  river,  and  just  lift  their  heads  a 
moment  as  you  pass,  to  peer  with  lazy  eyes  through 
the  cool  covert  of  the  trees. 

Little  colour  is  there  now  among  this  summer 
green.  The  glory  of  the  hawthorn  is  long  since 
scattered  on  the  grass  ;  fallen  are  the  white  flowers 
of  the  wayfaring  tree,  nor  touched  as  yet  its  berries  by 
the  wizard  sun,  who,  with  his  lamp  of  magic,  turns 
their  summer  greenness  into  autumn  flame. 

But  the  bryony  twines  shining  wreaths  among  the 


102  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

brambles  ;  the  elder  spreads  broad  discs  to  tempt  the 
winged  crowds. 

And  fairest  of  all  flowers  of  summer  the  sweet  June 
roses  bloom  on  all  their  swaying  sprays.  Some,  with 
generous  beauty  opened  to  the  full,  a  soft  flush  on 
their  wide,  scented  petals.  Others,  still  folded  close, 
just  part  their  rosy  lips  to  breathe  a  tender  perfume  on 
the  air. 

And  though  the  midsummer  meadows  have  lost 
something  of  the  bold  colouring  of  spring  ;  though 
there  are  no  sheets  of  daisies  now,  no  broad  unbroken 
acres  of  buttercup  gold,  there  is  a  fuller  beauty  on  the 
fields  of  June.  Tall  ox-eye  daisies,  white  and  pure, 
are  strewn  like  stars  among  the  waving  grass.  Red 
plumes  of  sorrel,  patches  of  yellow-rattle,  and  sweet 
beds  of  clover,  set  all  the  fields  aglow. 

The  ditches  that  drain  these  level  sweeps  of  marsh- 
land are  outlined  by  young  rushes,  bright  and  warm,\/' 
over  whose  forest  of  green  lance-points  the  ragged 
robin  waves  its  crimson  flags.  And  brighter  still 
than  all,  the  orchis  blooms.  Some  there  are,  all  pale 
and  colourless,  and  poised  like  plumes  of  white  on 
shafts  of  green  ;  others  tinged  with  soft  shades  of 
lavender ;  others  again  whose  spikes  of  rich  imperial 
purple  shine  like  fire  along  the  ground.  White  tufts 
of  cotton-grass  are  sprinkled  here  and  there,  and 
down  among  the  sedges,  half  hidden  by  the  tall, 
green  blades,  blue  flowers  of  milkwort  droop  their 
timid  heads. 


Flower -de-Luce.  103 

Standing  out  from  the  belt  of  alders  is  a  stalwart 
ash-tree,  wide  of  girth  and  broad  of  base,  with  roof  of 
feathery  green  that  invites  you  to  its  shadow.  Strong 
stems  of  ivy  cling  about  the  grey  old  trunk ;  round  its 
roots  there  gather  in  the  soft,  black  earth  reeds  and 
rushes  and  meadow  sweet,  and  all  the  plants  that  love 
the  moisture  and  the  shade. 

Who  sees  it  from  the  pathway  only  has  not  learned 
the  secret  of  the  ancient  tree.  But  the  loiterer,  who 
follows  the  windings  of  the  hedgerow,  finds  on  the 
farther  side  a  spacious  chamber,  a  great  hollow  hewn 
by  sun  and  rain. 

In  a  niche  within  its  crumbling  walls  the  flycatcher 
makes  her  nest,  the  creeper  hides  her  home  behind 
the  tangle  of  the  ivy,  field  mice  frolic  in  the  lofty 
hall. 

Other  feet,  perhaps,  have  left  their  traces  on  that 
earthen  floor.  Faltering  steps  have  crossed  the 
meadow  to  the  well-remembered  tree  —  a  trysting- 
place,  that  may  have  witnessed,  in  its  time,  scenes  of 
some  village  idyll ;  that  may  have  watched,  in  the 
scented  air  of  twilight,  for  a  white  figure  coming  slowly 
across  the  grass,  scattering  torn  daisy  petals  as  she 
passed,  and  whispering  softly  to  herself,  '  He  loves  me, 
loves  me  not.' 

Suddenly,  out  of  the  grass  at  your  very  feet,  starts 
up  with  plaintive  cry  a  tiny  bird — a  tree-pipit — that 
not  long  has  left  the  nest,  and  makes  what  way  he 
can  with  wings  and  feet  along  the  path  in  front.  He 


104  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

is  easily  caught ;  and  then,  as  if  resigned  to  meet  his 
fate,  looks  boldly  at  you  with  his  bright  black  eyes. 
His  little  wings  are  not  half  grown,  and  still  there 
clings  about  his  sleek  brown  head  the  nestling  down 
of  youth. 

In  an  apple-tree  near  by  the  parent  birds  are  crying. 
One  of  them,  no  doubt  the  mother,  flits  from  bough 
to  bough  with  piteous  appeal. 

You  set  the  little  captive  down,  and  straight  it 
vanishes  into  the  forest  of  the  grass.  The  anxious 
mother,  flying  down  to  meet  it,  is  content ;  her  cry  is 
heard  no  more. 

Just  in  front  a  whinchat  hovers,  poised  above  a 
bright  thistle-head,  the  bars  of  black  and  white  on 
his  expanded  tail  clear-cut  against  the  green.  He 
has  settled  now,  and  clinging  to  the  crimson  flower 
that  sways  beneath  his  weight,  he  utters  now  and  then 
a  sharp  '  Click,  click,'  of  caution  and  alarm  as  he 
watches  your  approach.  You  will  not  disturb  him  ; 
you  turn  aside  to  meet  the  river. 

In  the  low  bushes  by  the  shore  a  sedgewarbler  is 
singing.  White-breasted  martins,  too,  floating  on  the 
sunny  air,  stoop  down  to  touch  the  stream,  meeting 
their  own  fair  figures  in  its  tranquil  face. 

A  little  troop  of  starlings  hurries  overhead — two 
broods  at  least— neighbours  perhaps,  hatched  beneath 
the  thatch-eaves  of  village  barn,  and  beginning  already 
to  join  forces  for  the  winter. 

Now  a  blackbird,  flying  low  across  the  field,  drops 


Flower-de-Luce.  105 

down  into  the  tangle  by  a  distant  hedgerow — visiting 
his  nest  perhaps,  or  stooping  to  dip  in  the  cool  stream 
his  yellow  bill. 

Among  the  trees  across  the  brook  there  lies  a 
little  space  of  marshland  circled  by  swift  streams  :  a 
tangle  of  alder  and  willow,  a  wilderness  of  buck- 
thorn and  hazel ;  a  place  of  treacherous  ground,  in 
which  the  unwary  foot  may  suddenly  sink  deep  in  un- 
suspected mire.  Among  its  thickets  birds  find  safe 
sanctuary,  and  it  is  the  very  Camp  of  Refuge  for  all 
the  children  of  the  river. 

Across  two  great  willow  trees,  that,  uprooted  by 
some  wintry  storm,  lie  locked  in  close  embrace,  you 
may  pass  the  little  stream. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  mingled  boughs  that  arch  it 
over  like  a  cloister  roof,  the  brooklet  wanders  clear. 
Trout  are  poising  in  mid-stream,  water-rats  sit  silent 
by  the  shore. 

As  you  pause  a  moment  in  the  shade  of  the  grey 
willow  leaves,  even  a  kingfisher  settles  near,  and 
watches  with  keen  eyes  the  silver  flow.  So  near  is 
he  that  you  can  see  his  tiny  feet  that  grasp  the 
rugged  bark,  can  see  the  glitter  on  his  burnished 
feathers.  So  stands  he  for  a  moment,  silent,  motion- 
less, beautiful.  Then  with  sudden  start  spreads  wide 
his  wings,  and  sails  across  the  meadow  like  a  gleam  of 
light. 

It  is  a  very  jungle  that  lines  the  farther  shore. 
Knee-deep  are  the  tasselled  sedges,  breast-high  the 


io6  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

meadowsweet  and  marestail,  the  broad  blades  of  the 
iris  and  the  graceful  leafage  of  the  rue. 

A  passage  through  the  thickets,  hardly  seen,  a  green 
lane  among  leaves  of  bog-bean  and  tall,  tufted  grass 
leads  to  a  little  open  space  in  the  very  heart  of  the 
swamp. 

Here  in  the  summer  evenings  drones  the  night-jar. 
Here  pheasants  crow  in  the  twilight,  and  woodcock 
find  safe  cover  in  the  autumn.  Here,  too,  by  the  im- 
print of  her  slender  feet,  you  may  track  the  moor-hen 
to  her  haunt. 

The  ground  is  carpeted  with  flowers.  Spikes  of 
purple  orchis,  dwarf  tufts  of  broom,  and  tall  red 
thistles  brighten  all  the  grass.  The  air  is  heavy  with 
the  breath  of  fragrant  marsh  plants,  crushed  beneath 
your  tread. 

At  every  step,  too,  moths,  and  butterflies,  and 
delicate  insects,  with  blue  lace-like  wings,  rise  from  the 
green  tangle  underfoot. 

As  you  put  aside  with  careful  touch  the  stems  of 
sedge  that  cut  like  knife-blades  the  incautious  hand 
you  see  below  pale  lavender  pimpernels  and  bright 
flowers  of  the  moneywort  that  scatters  on  the  ground 
its  lavish  gold.  Vetches,  too,  clamber  up  out  of  the 
green  wilderness,  and  lay  hold  of  friendly  stems  that 
help  them  to  the  light. 

And  filling  all  the  open  spaces  in  the  thickets,  now 
brightening  the  dim  shadows  of  the  bushes,  now 


Flower -de-Luce.  107 

flaming  like  a  glory  in  the  sun,  droop  the  fair  petals  of 
he  flower-de-luce,  here,  as  ever,  haunting  still 

' the  sylvan  streams, 

Playing  on  pipes  of  reed  the  artless  ditties 
That  come  to  us  as  dreams." 

No  whisper  of  unrest  can  mar  the  quiet  of  this  far 
retreat.  From  distant  meadows  rise  the  softened 
sounds  of  toil,  fainter  still  the  gentle  murmur  of  the 
streams.  No  louder  voice  is  here  than  song  of  gold- 
finch, sweet  and  low,  the  rustle  of  the  restless  sedge, 
he  sigh  of  summer  breezes  in  the  reeds. 


A    ROBBER    STRONGHOLD. 


THE  blue  hills  of  Devon  are  fading  far  astern. 
The  heights  of  Exmoor,  the  rugged  coast-line, 
the  little  ports  whose  streets  like  stairways  rise  steeply 
from  the  sea,  are  vanishing  in  the  mist  of  dawn. 
From  the  lighthouse  tower  of  Hartland  shines  a  feeble 
gleam,  that  '  shows  the  matin  to  be  near,  and  'gins  to 
pale  his  ineffectual  fire.' 

On  the  smooth  water  whole  fleets  of  sea-birds  ride, 
idly  rocked  on  the  long  ocean  swell,  their  white  breasts 
mirrored  in  the  clear  green  waves. 

Some,  at  the  beat  of  paddles,  start  as  if  from  dreams, 
turn  to  gaze  a  moment,  and  then  vanish,  diving  swift 
as  thought  beneath  the  sea. 

Others,  as  the  boat  draws  near,  reluctantly  take 
wing,  some  struggling  far  along  the  surface  before 
rising  clear. 

Right  before  us,  faint  and  shadowy  as  some  phantom 
land,  dim  through  the  mists  of  morning,  rise  the  bold, 
bare  cliffs  of  Lundy. 

Under  the  shelter  of  that  granite  rock,  set  like  a 


A  Robber  Stronghold.  109 

wall  against  the  stormy  west,  many  a  good  ship  rides 
safe  on  wild  nights,  when  winds  are  raging  up  the 
Channel,  when  the  foam-flakes  sing  over  the  island, 
and  the  caverns  in  the  cliff  are  thundering  with  the 
fierce  Atlantic  surge. 

Many  a  good  ship,  alas  !  has  made  for  it  in  vain, 
hurried  helpless  to  her  doom  among  fatal  sands  or 
still  more  cruel  reefs. 

A  Royal  Commission  reported  thirty  years  ago  that 
of  all  points  on  the  Channel,  Lundy  Island  was  the 
best  adapted  for  the  much-needed  Harbour  of  Refuge 
on  this  dangerous  sea. 

There  is  deep  water  all  round  it.  Tiie  material, 
too,  is  all  at  hand.  The  cliffs  of  the  island  furnish 
granite  well  suited  for  the  needful  breakwaters.  It  is 
twenty  years  since  the  works  of  the  company  who 
quarried  here  for  the  Thames  Embankment  were 
abandoned,  and  fern,  and  broom,  and  heather,  since 
then  have  done  their  best  to  cover  up  the  traces  that 
remain.  But  better  stone  than  they  exported,  needing 
no  wax  to  hide  its  faults,  exists  there  in  abundance. 

It  is  merely  a  question  of  expense.  Scores  of  tall 
ships  are  lost  each  year,  hundreds  of  gallant  fellows 
meet  their  doom  for  want  of  a  refuge  that  might  easily 
be  paid  for  by  the  cost  of  one  first-class  ironclad. 

But  we  are  nearing  land.  The  iron  heart  of  the 
little  steamer  throbs  no  longer ;  we  are  drifting  with 
the  tide  on  a  current  that  rushes  by  like  a  mill-race. 
The  dinghy  is  lowered,  and  we  pull  for  the  beach. 


I  ro  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

The  lightest  air  from  the  east  makes  landing  diffi- 
cult, and  now  there  is  a  heavy  surf  along  the  shore. 
But  by  choosing  the  right  moment,  and  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  shelter  of  a  great  rock,  the  boat  is  run 
upon  the  shingle,  and  we  are  safe  ashore. 

The  men  push  off  their  little  craft  again  and  pull 
back  to  the  steamer.  The  boat  is  hauled  up,  the 
paddles  churn  the  sea  into  a  flood  of  foam,  the  skipper 
waves  a  last  salute,  and  we  are  left  upon  the  empty 
shore. 

There  is  no  sign  of  life  anywhere.  Two  ancient 
boats  that  may  have  drifted  over  from  the  mainland, 
spars  of  old  ships,  and  sea-worn  timbers  high  and  dry 
above  the  tide  mark,  might  have  lain  here  for  ages. 

As  we  pause  a  minute  on  the  shingle,  the  solitude 
and  silence  are  enough  to  call  up  memories  of 
marooned  sea-captains,  of  long  lonely  vigil  upon  sea- 
girt rocks. 

Over  the  wide  sea  is  silence — no  sail,  no  cry  of 
bird,  no  flash  of  wing.  No  stir  of  life  along  the  shore 
save  the  dark  figure  of  a  drifting  cormorant,  no  sound 
save  the  hoarse  note  of  a  raven  watching  from  the 
cliff,  and  the  rhythmic  beat  of  surf  along  the  strand. 

On  a  bold  rock,  standing  like  a  sentry  on  the  height 
above,  a  pile  of  granite,  lichen-draped,  brightened 
with  sea-pink  and  green  tongues  of  fern,  a  buzzard 
rests.  So  still  is  he,  he  seems  but  part  of  the  stone 
on  which  he  stands. 

A  herring  gull,  on  broad  wings  sailing  by,  catches 


A  Robber  Stronghold.  in 

sight  of  the  motionless  figure,  and,  with  hoarse  notes 
of  challenge,  deals  him  a  buffet  as  he  passes. 

The  buzzard,  spreading  with  reluctance  his  great 
brown  wings,  wheels  into  the  air.  He  has  no  mind 
for  battle,  but  his  enemy  presses  him  hard  with  beak 
and  pinion.  The  two  figures,  dark  and  light,  rise  and 
fall,  and  flutter,  and  wheel  this  way  and  that,  and  then 
drift  screaming  round  the  headland,  fighting  still. 

Now  above  the  low  grey  coast-line  peers  the  sun. 

There  is  no  splendour  in  the  misty  sky,  no  gleam  of 
golden  arrows  among  purple  clouds.  Only  a  touch  cf 
fire  that  broadens  fast  into  a  round,  red  shield. 

The  ripples  on  the  sea  are  lined  in  crimson.  The 
piles  of  rock  along  the  shore,  draped  with  rich  brown 
weed,  still  glistening  from  the  falling  tide,  are  touched 
with  gold.  There  is  silver  on  the  flashing  surf,  on  the 
wet  slope  of  pebbles,  on  the  shining  line  of  seaweed 
that  sweetens  the  cool  air  of  morning  with  its  fragrant 
breath. 

This  brief  stretch  of  shingle  is  the  only  break  in  al 
the  coast-line.  A  narrow  way  winds  upward  from  the 
sea,  a  road  that  a  handful  of  defenders  might  hold 
against  an  army. 

Some  points  there  are,  on  the  far  side  of  the  island, 
where  a  man  may  scramble  up  the  rocks,  but  so  well 
defended  by  its  cliffs  is  the  little  islet  that  '  there  is  no 
entrance  but  for  friends.' 

This  granite  rock,  from  the  mainland  but  a  line  of 
cloud  along  the  sea,  at  most  a  purple  bar  against  a 


U2  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

sunset  sky,  in  thick  weather  not  seldom  altogether  lost 
in  haze,  has  been  in  its  time  a  very  nursery  of  sea- 
rovers,  a  stronghold  for  the  pirates  of  a  thousand 
years. 

Hardy  Norsemen  anchored  here  their  dark-ribbed 
keels — perhaps  even  gave  the  isle  its  very  name.  No 
runes  remain  to  tell  their  story,  but  the  plough  and 
the  spade  have  brought  to  light  relics  of  old  frays 
which  may  be  memorials  of  their  time. 

Forty  years  ago  some  labourers,  in  digging  the 
foundation  for  a  wall,  laid  bare  a  slab  of  granite.  Be- 
neath it,  in  a  rude  chamber  framed  of  blocks  of  stone, 
lay  a  gigantic  skeleton,  that  measured  more  than  eight 
feet  in  length.  No  weapons  had  been  buried  with  the 
dead,  no  ornaments  even  were  discovered,  beyond 
some  scraps  of  bronze  and  a  few  beads  of  pale  blue 
glass.  Other  skeletons  lay  near,  some  arranged  with 
care,  others  in  a  mingled  mass,  as  if  many  bodies  had 
been  huddled  into  a  common  grave. 

Scattered  over  the  island  are  abundant  traces  of  its 
old  inhabitants — faint  signs  of  ancient  tillage,  shape- 
less heaps  of  stone.  The  cliffs  are  pierced  with  caves 
and  galleries,  to  which  the  ringer  of  tradition  points  as 
holding  still  the  gold  of  the  buccaneers. 

Of  the  convicts,  who  under  sentence  of  banishment 
to  Virginia  were  landed  here  by  Benson  in  the  middle 
of  last  century  and  set  to  labour  on  the  island,  little 
trace  remains  beyond  rude  walls  of  unhewn  stone. 

But,  from  end  to  end   of  the  island,  the  bracken 


A  Robber  Stronghold.  113 

hides  the  low  mounds  of  old  dwellings,  the  heath  is 
high  round  ruined  towers,  from  which,  perhaps,  the 
pirates  of  old  days  watched  the  slow  sailing  of  deep- 
laden  argosies.  Over  the  granite  dykes  of  ponds  long 
choked  with  moss  and  reeds  grow  cotton-grass  and 
asphodel ;  and  among  the  fern  and  ling  that  hide  the 
ruins  of 'The  Widow's  Tenement,'  still  her  roses  bloom. 

The  steep  brow  over  the  landing-place  is  crowned 
by  the  old  Marisco  fortress,  whose  lords  were  long  the 
terror  of  the  sea.  Still  stands  the  low  square  keep  of 
the  pirate  hold,  but  in  the  chinks  of  its  rude  masonry 
the  samphire  grows.  No  sentry  from  its  walls  looks 
seaward  for  the  gleam  of  hostile  sails.  No  warning 
signal  from  the  turret  summons  the  islanders  to  arms. 

But  from  the  white  staff  that  rises  in  the  court  there 
flutters  week  by  week— brooding  like  the  dove  of 
peace  over  the  robber  stronghold — the  call  to  prayer 
in  the  tiny  church  beneath  the  hill. 

Over  ruined  tower  and  rampart  the  sweet  lotos 
blooms;  bright  blue  scabious  nestles  in  the  rifted 
stones. 

Far  down  below  lie  the  pale  green  waves,  fringing 
dark  reefs  with  hungry  foam. 

In  the  hands  of  resolute  defenders  this  fortress, 
guarded  by  steep  cliff  and  stormy  sea,  must  in  old 
days  have  been  all  but  impregnable. 

But  force  or  fraud  have  found  ere  now  a  way  up 
that  steep  path  from  the  beach.  These  flowery  slopes 
that  stretch  away  from  the  outworks  of  the  castle, 

8 


IT4  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

where  the  breath  of  clover  mingles  with  the  fragrance 
of  the  thyme,  have  been  trampled  by  the  heels  of 
Spanish  captains,  who  forced  the  ill-guarded  path  and 
plundered  the  defenceless  islanders. 

The  ports  of  Devon  long  remembered  the  corsair 
Algerines  who  moored  their  galleys  in  the  bay. 
Over  and  over  again  the  privateers  of  France  found 
sanctuary  here  and  made  booty  of  the  shipping  of 
the  Channel. 

Once  a  French  war-ship,  with  false  colours  flying, 
asked  leave  to  bury,  in  the  ancient  graveyard  on  the 
hill,  the  body  of  her  captain.  The  leave  was  granted. 
The  funeral  party  came  ashore,  passed  with  slow  pace 
up  the  steep  road,  and  laid  their  burden  down  within 
the  church. 

Few  minutes,  however,  had  elapsed  when  a  body  of 
men,  armed  with  weapons  that  had  been  hidden  in 
the  coffin,  rushed  out  upon  the  helpless  islanders. 
Everything  of  value  was  taken  or  wantonly  destroyed. 
Cattle  were  thrown  into  the  sea,  the  foris  were  dis- 
mantled, the  guns  hurled  over  the  cliff. 

So  runs  the  story ;  and  still  upon  the  beach  there 
lies  a  long  iron  gun  that,  thrown  from  the  steep  brow 
overhead,  for  two  centuries  has  rusted  in  the  shingle. 

Long  since  ruined  is  the  ancient  church  ;  no  trace 
but  the  foundation  now  remains. 

But  the  graveyard  round  is  full  to  overflowing  with 
grass-grown  mounds,  nameless  and  dateless,  hidden 
deep  in  fern  and  bramble. 


A  Robber  Stronghold.  115 

Here  through  long  generations  the  islanders  have 
laid  their  weary  bones.  Here  the  Marisco  lords  have 
brought  their  dead.  Here  lay,  '  unwept,  unhonoured, 
and  unsung,'  the  body  of  the  recreant  knight  who 
brought  the  noble  Raleigh  to  his  doom. 

Here,  too,  by  stranger  hands  committed  to  the  dust, 
have  been  laid  the  wasted  forms  of  hapless  mariners 
who  perished  on  this  stormy  sea — 

'  Those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long ; 

The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breathless  gloom, 
And  the  vain  yearning  woke  mid  festal  song.' 


8—2 


A    SEA-BIRDS'    HAUNT. 


IT  is  the  north  end  of  Lundy. 
Among  the  short  heath  that  purples  all  the  hill, 
patches  of  bare  grey  granite  rise,  like  the  brows  of 
ancient  cliffs  deep  sunk  amid  a  sea  of  green. 

There  is  no  sign  or  sound  of  man,  or  beast,  or  bird, 
save  the  sharp  note  of  a  stonechat  swaying  on  a  spike 
of  foxglove,  or  the  faint  cry  of  a  wandering  gull,  whose 
white  wings  float  a  moment  over  the  shoulders  of  the 
hill. 

No  sound  is  there  even  of  the  sea,  that  in  the  soft 
air  of  summer  sleeps  far  down  about  the  bases  of  the 
cliffs. 

A  wall  of  granite  bars  the  way — a  pile  of  worn  and 
lichen-covered  blocks,  with  all  their  ledges  set  with 
yellow  hawkweed  and  pale  tufts  of  thrift. 

A  narrow  pass  leads  downward  through  the  rocks, 
and  opens— like  some  gate'  of  magic — on  another 
world. 

To  right  and  left  lies  a  broad  hollow — a  stretch  of 
grass  that  slopes  steeply  to  the  sea,  bright  with  mingled 


LUNDY    ISLAND. 


A  Sea-Birds'  Haunt.  117 

tints  of  thrift,  and  heath,  and  stone-crop,  and  strewn 
with  blocks  of  granite,  lying  broadcast  on  the  ground 
or  piled  high  like  the  rude  monuments  of  barbaric 
kings. 

Beyond  are  wide  sweeps  of  dark-blue  sea  with  pale 
green  shallows  foaming  white  round  a  low  line  of 
reef.  And  everywhere,  on  land,  and  sky,  and  wave, 
are  myriads  of  sea-fowl. 

It  is  the  sea-birds'  haunt. 

On  every  stone  stands  a  group  of  puffins ;  the  ledges 
of  the  cliff  are  outlined  with  the  forms  of  innumerable 
razor-bills  and  guillemots;  scattered  over  the  sea 
thousands  of  drifting  figures  rock  idly  on  the  waves. 

On  the  sharp  crags  that  skirt  the  slope  herring  gulls 
are  resting.  Some  rise  as  you  draw  near,  their  broad 
wings  bright  against  the  pallid  blue.  Their  flight  is  a 
very  triumph  of  the  wing.  They  float  and  wheel,  and 
rise  and  fall  with  no  perceptible  beat  of  their  long 
pinions — only  a  turn  of  the  glossy  head  or  slight 
movement  of  the  broad,  expanded  tail.  They  sweep 
slowly  by,  a  few  feet  overhead,  crying  with  discordant 
notes  that  have,  at  times,  a  weird  suggestion  of  Satanic 
laughter. 

The  herring  gull  is  a  powerful  bird — a  pirate,  too, 
shunned  and  dreaded  by  all  the  lesser  toilers  of  the 
sea,  almost  as  much  even  as  the  raven. 

Scattered  among  the  fern  and  heather  of  the  little 
glens  that  break  the  wall  of  cliff,  many  a  broken 
eggshell  bears  his  robber's  mark.  Many  a  young 


u8  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

kittiwake  has  felt  the  grip  of  his  cruel  bill.  Hundreds 
of  young  puffins  he  has  taken  unaware  at  the  mouths  of 
their  burrows  or  snatched  up  from  the  surface  of  the 
sea. 

On  the  reefs  that  fringe  the  shore  groups  of  cor- 
morants are  drying  their  wet  plumage  in  the  sun. 

From  a  great  chasm  in  the  rocks,  a  mighty  rift 
with  bare  precipitous  walls  running  deep  into  the 
island,  sounds  now  and  then  the  clamour  of  a  colony 
of  gulls ;  and,  at  times,  hundreds  of  kittiwakes,  as  if 
moved  by  common  impulse,  rise  in  a  cloud  from  the 
dark  hollow,  float  like  flecks  of  foam  over  the  sea,  and 
then  sink  slowly  back  into  the  cavernous  depth. 

In  these  rocky  hollows  seals  find  shelter  still,  and 
it  is  not  long  since  a  shepherd-dog  was  seen  barking 
furiously  at  a  seal,  lying  on  a  reef  a  few  yards  from 
shore,  who  for  his  part  was  staring  hard  at  this  strange 
monster  of  the  land.  The  presence  of  the  shepherd 
broke  the  spell.  The  seal  gazed  a  moment  at  the 
man — a  form  but  too  well  known  to  all  the  timid  race 
— and  sank  down  into  the  sheltering  waves. 

The  whole  surface  of  the  water  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach  is  dotted  with  figures  light  or  dark,  swimming, 
diving,  drifting  idly  with  the  current.  Far  out  a  white 
cloud  of  gulls  has  gathered  over  some  object  floating 
in  the  waves. 

A  few  gannets  sail  over  the  water,  their  outstretched 
necks,  slow  flight,  and  pure  white  plumage  singling 
them  plainly  out  among  the  motley  crowd. 


A.  Sea-Birds'  Haunt.  119 

They  were  once  more  plentiful  here,  and  in  old 
days  formed  a  source  of  revenue  to  the  islanders.  In 
an  old  inventory,  dated  1321,  we  find  mention  of 
'a  certain  rock  called  the  Gannett  Stone,  with  two 
places  near  it  where  gannetts  settle  and  breed,  worth 
in  ordinary  years  sixty-six  shillings  and  eightpence, 
but  this  year  destroyed  in  great  part  by  the 
Scots.' 

The  Gannet  Stone  still  bears  its  name,  but  it  is  long 
since  it  had  any  tenants.  The  birds  have  more  than 
once  been  entirely  driven  from  the  island,  and  Lundy 
gannets  have  founded  one  colony,  at  least,  upon  the 
coast  of  Wales. 

A  huge  pyramid  of  stone  that  rises  by  the  shore  is 
crowded  with  razor-bills  and  guillemots,  and  far  along 
the  cliff  the  ledges  are  lined  with  countless  figures, 
motionless  and  silent. 

Many  of  these  ledges  seem  so  narrow  and  insignifi- 
cant that  the  eye  could  hardly  trace  them,  were  it  not 
for  their  dusky  tenants. 

And  not  only  are  sea  and  shore,  and  cave  and  cliff, 
thus  crowded  with  unnumbered  birds,  but  all  the 
while  an  incessant  stream  of  flying  figures  is  passing 
through  the  air.  Every  moment  puffins  emerge  from 
their  crevices  and  burrows  and  fly  swiftly  downward 
with  strange  moth-like  flutter  to  the  sea.  Every 
moment  hundreds  more  come  up  from  the  water, 
carrying  fish  into  their  holes. 

As  you  make  your  slow  way  down  the  grassy  slope 


120 


Idylls  of  the  Field. 


under  the  cliff,  among  the  piles  of  granite,  puffins 
start  in  scores  from  the  ledges  of  the  rocks. 

But  when  you  pause  in  the  shelter  of  a  great  block, 
hoary  with  its  long  gray  lichens,  the  birds  return  to 
the  resting-places  from  which  your  coming  startled 
them. 

Some  of  them,  perched  in  little  companies  on  their 
favourite  ledges,  have  not  stirred  at  all,  but  allowed 
you  to  pass  almost  within  arm's  length,  without  sign 
of  fear. 

One  particularly  pretty  group  of  some  fifty  puffins 
has  collected  on  the  shelves  and  ledges  of  a  picturesque 
pile  of  granite  within  a  dozen  yards. 

Nearer  still,  on  a  broad  stone,  hardly  two  yards 
away,  another  company  is  gathering.  One  by  one  the 
birds  drop  out  of  the  flying  stream  and  settle  down 
upon  the  stone.  Then  walking  up  to  the  edge,  with 
steps  half  dainty,  half  awkward,  they  stare  at  you  with 
odd,  reproachful,  inquisitive  faces. 

A  sudden  rush  of  wings  passes  overhead  ;  a  puffin 
hovers  over  the  rock  before  you,  with  legs  hanging 
down  as  if  feeling  for  the  land.  It  flaps  its  wings  a 
few  times  as  if  to  settle  its  balance,  and  then  takes  its 
place  among  the  little  crew  of  odd,  upright  figures, 
half  shy,  half  scared — some  with  heads  turned  drolly 
on  one  side,  that  regard  you  with  comical  expres- 
sion. 

A  shadow  falls  from  the  rock  overhead.  You  lock 
up.  A  puffin  is  standing  just  above  you,  with  a  fish 


A   Sea-Birds'  Haunt.  121 

glittering  in  his  beak.  So  near  is  he  that  you  might 
almost  reach  him  with  your  hand. 

They  are  all  silent,  but  their  looks  and  attitudes 
express,  as  plain  as  words  could  put  it,  '  When  will 
this  tiresome  fellow  go  away  ?' 

Now  one  stands  up  to  flap  his  short  black  wings. 
Another  yawns ;  a  second  follows  suit.  Now  one, 
with  great  show  of  deliberation,  crouches  flat  upon  the 
rock,  as  if  he,  at  least,  had  made  up  his  mind  to  make 
a  night  of  it,  and  tire  the  intruder  out.  Many  of  them 
have  tiny  fish  hanging  from  their  beaks,  and  are,  no 
doubt,  impatient  to  visit  their  nests,  but  are  uncertain 
whether  it  is  safe  to  venture  yet. 

But  as  time  goes  on,  and  you  keep  quiet,  they  gain 
confidence  at  last,  and  one  by  one  they  fly  down 
from  the  rocks  to  the  entrance  of  their  burrows. 
Pretty  pictures  they  make,  as  they  stand  among  the 
tufts  of  thrift,  with  their  dark  backs  and  snowy  breasts, 
their  neat  black  collars,  their  brilliant  feet,  their 
strangely  shaped  and  coloured  bills.  One  stoops 
down  and  peers  into  his  burrow;  then  he  turns  to 
look  at  you ;  then  he  takes  heart,  and  plunges  in. 
Another  follows,  and  another.  Ere  long  your  pre- 
sence is  forgotten,  and  the  birds  resume  their  inter- 
rupted duties  without  further  sign  of  fear. 

The  burrows  here  look  as  if  they  were  the  work  of 
the  birds  themselves,  whose  sharp  bills  and  powerful 
claws  are  well  suited  for  mining  in  this  yielding  ground. 
But  puffins  often  make  use  of  rabbit  holes,  and  it  is 


122  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

no  uncommon  thing  for  the  birds  to  turn  out  the  rabbits 
almost  to  the  extent  sometimes  of  a  whole  warren. 

The  burrows,  though  often  not  more  than  four  or 
five  feet  in  length,  sometimes  run  in  to  twice  that 
distance,  and  either  from  accident  or  design  are 
generally  so  crooked  that  it  is  not  easy  to  reach  the 
end.  There  is  usually  a  bird  on  guard,  too,  and  a 
puffin's  beak  is  no  toy  weapon  of  defence. 

The  broad  stone  in  front  is  only  a  look-out  or  a 
place  of  meeting,  but  the  birds  that  crowd  the  ledges 
higher  up  are  on  the  threshold  of  their  dwellings,  and 
have  little  families  hidden  away  among  the  hollows  of 
the  rocks  behind  them. 

The  puffins'  eggs  are  long  since  hatched,  and  the 
young  birds,  though  wearing  still  their  coats  of  down, 
are  already  beginning  to  come  out  of  their  holes  and 
scramble  down  to  the  sea. 

As  you  clamber  about  among  the  rocks  you  will 
hear  the  cries  of  the  young,  and  may  perhaps  discover 
in  a  narrow  crevice  among  the  granite  slabs  a  member 
of  the  rising  generation.  Near  the  entrance  sits  the 
old  bird,  her  plump  figure  just  filling  the  fissure  ; 
turning  up  to  you  her  strange,  owl-like  face,  apparently 
with  no  thought  of  fear,  anxious  only  about  the 
safety  of  that  dusky  ball  of  down  that  crouches  at  the 
far  end  of  the  crevice. 

The  mother  is  not  easily  caught.  She  fights  hard 
with  beak  and  claws,  whose  marks  will  perhaps  remain 
long  imprinted  on  your  fingers. 


A   Sea-Birds'  Haunt.  123 

The  young  bird  makes  no  resistance,  and  you  are 
at  leisure  to  note  the  strange  contrast  between  its 
sooty  coat  and  the  snowy  plumage  of  its  parent — to 
compare,  too,  the  highly-arched  and  brightly  coloured 
beak  of  the  one,  with  the  straight  and  undecorated 
bill  of  the  other ;  the  vivid  scarlet  of  the  strong  feet 
of  the  old  bird  with  the  black  paddles  of  its  single 
fledgling. 

They  are  indeed  an  odd  couple.  You  let  them  go 
at  length.  The  young  one  scrambles  down  again  into 
its  cavern,  the  mother  darts  straight  as  an  arrow  out 
to  sea,  flying  fast  and  far  over  the  water,  as  if  too 
angry  ever  to  return. 

On  a  ledge  close  by,  on  the  hard  bare  earth  that 
time  has  collected  on  the  rock,  lies  a  great  pear- 
shaped  egg,  whose  white  ground  is  finely  decorated 
with  rich  brown  markings.  It  is  a  razor-bill's  egg, 
and  in  the  niches  in  the  rocks  you  soon  discover 
more. 

The  birds  themselves,  who  for  the  most  part  haunt 
stations  nearer  to  the  sea,  are  looking  down  at  you  all 
the  while,  perched  in  a  row  upon  the  rock,  and  craning 
their  necks  to  watch  your  every  movement.  Fine 
fellows  they  are,  with  their  snowy  breasts,  dark  backs, 
and  smart,  soldierly  attitude. 

But  as  you  watch  them,  their  forms  are  growing 
faint  and  dim.  A  cold  wind  is  blowing  up  the 
hollow  ;  and  now,  hiding  fast  the  sky  and  sea,  veiling 
the  glory  of  the  sinking  sun  and  all  the  trembling 


124  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

path  of  golden  ripples  that  lies  along  the  waves,  a 
rolling  sea-fog  sweeps  fast  along  the  hill. 

The  groups  of  puffins  vanish  in  the  streaming  mist. 
The  rocky  stage  and  all  its  feathered  actors  fade  behind 
the  cold  gray  curtain. 

But  still  the  voices  of  the  gulls  sound  ghostlike 
through  the  cloud  ;  the  chorus  of  the  drifting  razor- 
bills rises  faintly  from  the  sea.  Still,  without  pause, 
there  hurries  by  unseen  the  rush  of  innumerable 
wings. 


CHEDDAR    CLIFFS. 


A  RECENT  note  of  warning  as  to  the  danger 
which  threatens  the  beauty  of  Cheddar  has  not 
been  sounded  a  moment  too  soon.  It  is  true  that  the 
actual  cliffs  are  still  untouched,  but  what  is  being 
done  has  already  spoilt  beyond  remedy  not  a  little  of 
their  charm.  The  slopes  of  rock  and  stones  which 
harmonize  so  well  with  the  stern  and  magnificent 
outlines  of  the  cliffs  are  being  quarried  at  intervals 
from  one  end  of  the  ravine  to  the  other — here  for 
building,  there  for  lime,  everywhere  for  mending  the 
roads. 

One  of  the  finest  points  of  view  is  already  sadly 
marred,  and  even  if  the  work  should  at  once  be  dis- 
continued, it  will  be  many  years  before  the  signs  of 
quarrying  disappear  before  the  softening  influences  of 
time  and  weather. 

Cheddar  is  a  national  glory.  There  is  not  a  finer 
piece  of  cliff  scenery  in  the  British  Islands.  Even  a 
travelled  American  said  of  it,  as  he  walked  up  the 


126  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

grand  ravine,  '  We  have  a  Yosemite  and  a  Niagara, 
but  we  have  no  Cheddar  Cliffs.' 

The  cliffs,  at  their  base  an  almost  unbroken  wall  of 
rock,  but  separated  towards  their  summits  into  pic- 
turesque masses  like  towers  of  Cyclopean  masonry, 
skirt  one  side  of  a  long,  winding  ravine — a  rift  that 
runs  into  the  very  heart  of  the  hills,  not,  as  an  old 
writer  says,  the  work  of  Nature  'in  one  of  those 
moments  when  she  convulsed  the  world  with  the 
throes  of  an  earthquake,  burst  asunder  the  rocky  ribs 
of  Mendip  and  tore  a  chasm  across  its  diameter  of 
more  than  a  mile  in  length,'  but  slowly  sculptured  by 
water,  of  whose  action  it  bears  abundant  traces. 

The  height  of  the  cliffs  is  often  overstated.  A  late 
inhabitant  who  measured  them  with  a  line  and  plum- 
met found  the  highest  point  to  be  not  more  than 
360  feet  above  the  road.  But  their  beauty  does  not 
depend  upon  their  altitude ;  Cheddar  is  one  of  those 
places  which  never  disappoint,  and  of  which  no  de- 
scription can  surpass  the  reality. 

Beautiful  even  when  trees  are  bare  and  skies  are 
grey,  when  snow  lies  white  along  the  ledges,  and  icy 
fringes  glitter  in  the  wintry  sun,  it  is  in  springtime  that 
the  cliffs  are  at  their  best;  when  the  foliage  that 
softens  all  their  stern  and  rugged  faces  is  brightening 
in  the  sun  of  May  ;  when  all  the  thousand  tenants  are 
busy  round  their  castles  in  the  air. 

Then,  in  the  twilight,  wander  down  the  gorge,  while 
the  flush  of  sunset  lingers  still  upon  the  rocky  steeps. 


Cheddar  Cliffs.  127 

Round  the  grey  pinnacles  float  the  silent,  ghost-like 
figures  of  the  daws.  Far  above  them  soaring  swifts 
have  still  the  gleam  of  daylight  on  their  wings. 

Every  leaf  is  still.  There  is  no  sound  but  now 
and  then  the  clamour  of  some  home-returning  troop  of 
birds,  or  the  rustling  of  a  rock-dove's  wings  as  she 
flutters  home  to  roost. 

The  weathered  faces  of  rock  are  in  many  places  too 
steep  and  smooth  for  any  but  the  smallest  plants  to 
find  a  footing ;  but  in  the  crevices,  and  especially  in 
the  recesses  high  up  among  the  cliffs,  there  flourishes 
a  luxuriant  growth. 

The  dark  foliage  of  the  yew,  the  silvery  leaves  of  the 
white  beam,  and  the  varied  tints  of  half  a  score  of 
other  hardy  shrubs  which,  blended  in  picturesque 
confusion,  have  anchored  themselves  in  the  shattered 
buttresses,  form,  with  the  cool  green  of  the  ivy  that 
clings  everywhere  in  graceful  draperies,  an  exquisite 
relief  among  the  delicate  grey  of  the  time-worn  lime- 
stone. 

Not  a  few  flowers,  too,  find  a  home  upon  the  rocks. 
In  the  summer  the  frail  yellow  poppy  clings  about 
their  feet ;  abundant  wall-flowers  scent  the  air ;  soft 
blue  harebells  nestle  in  the  grass.  Sober  wood-sage 
and  bright  stone-crops  wander  among  the  shattered 
fragments ;  while  on  all  the  ledges  and  in  every 
crevice  the  delicate  little  Cheddar  pink,  pride  at  once 
of  the  cliffs  and  the  country,  shows  its  tender  flush  of 
rose  on  every  buttress  of  the  mighty  wall.  There  is 


128  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

no  fear  of  exterminating  that.  It  grows  mostly  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  casual  visitor.  Maidenhair  there  is 
not,  and  probably  never  was ;  but  ferns  of  many  kinds 
fringe  the  rocky  cornices  with  their  graceful  fronds. 

But  the  gorge  has  other  tenants.  Crowds  of  jack- 
daws haunt  its  rocky  niches ;  and  the  Babel  of  their 
thousand  tongues,  and  the  flutter  of  their  dusky  wings 
as  they  float  far  up  against  the  blue  sky,  are  for  a  great 
part  of  the  year  features  never  absent  from  it.  Among 
the  dark  plumage  of  the  daws  flash  the  grey  wings  of 
the  rock-dove ;  and  the  scream  of  the  kestrel  every 
now  and  then  breaks  in  upon  the  chattering  chorus. 

Years  ago  the  lordly  peregrine  kept  his  castle  with 
the  rest ;  but  both  he  and  the  raven,  though  not  un- 
known, seldom  revisit  now  their  ancient  haunts. 

The  limestone  of  the  Mendips  is  pierced  by  many 
caves,  some  of  which,  like  that  of  Goatchurch  at 
Burrington,  are  long  and  intricate.  Despoiled  of 
their  beauty  long  ago,  and  having  yielded  rich  harvests 
of  bones  to  Beard,  Dawkins,  and  other  cave-hunters, 
there  is  little  in  them  now  to  tempt  the  explorer. 

A  better  fate  has  attended  the  cavern  at  Cheddar, 
which,  half  a  century  ago,  was  discovered  by  accident 
in  digging  foundations  for  a  stable.  Its  treasures  have 
been  guarded  with  such  care,  that,  it  is  no  exaggeration 
to  say,  there  are  few  more  beautiful  caverns  in  the 
world  than  this  pride  of  a  little  West-Country  village. 

There  are  few  allusions  to  the  cliffs  in  old  writers, 
who,  indeed,  seldom  troubled  themselves  about  the 


Cheddar  Cliffs.  129 

WOTKS  of  nature;    Camden  makes  merely  a  passing 
reference  to  the  village. 

The  earliest  mention  of  the  name  is  probably  in 
Domesday.  'The  King,'  says  the  old  Norman 
Survey,  '  holds  Cedre.  King  Edward  held  it.  It  has 
never  paid  tax,  nor  is  it  known  how  many  hides  there 
are  in  it.' 

The  whole  district  was  a  favourite  royal  hunting- 
ground  both  before  and  after  the  Conquest.  The 
bare  brown  uplands,  which  fringe  the  summits  of  the 
cliffs  and  reach  far  over  the  sterile  hills,  were  densely 
covered  then  with  noble  forests,  the  haunt  of  those 
tall  red  deer  which  the  Norman  King  loved  as  if  he 
were  their  father. 

One  of  the  Saxon  Kings  nearly  lost  his  life  there. 
Following  a  stag  through  the  woods,  and  carried  by 
the  heat  of  the  chase  close  to  the  perilous  verge,  he 
saw  both  the  deer  and  the  hounds,  unable  to  pause  in 
their  career,  hurled  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and 
himself  narrowly  escaped  their  terrible  fate. 

The  dwellers  in  the  white  hamlets  scattered  along 
the  bases  of  the  hills  must  have  been  long  familiar 
with  the  howl  of  wolves  among  the  wild  ravines ;  and 
the  curfew — still  rung  in  some  of  these  ancient  villages 
— may  well  have  been  the  signal  to  the  fierce  marauders 
to  descend  on  the  defenceless  farms. 

The  face  of  the  country  has  seen  much  change  since 
then.  The  far-reaching  moor,  that  from  the  mouth  of 
the  gorge  stretches  away  until  its  shadowy  rim  fades 

9 


130  Idylls  of  the  Fuld. 

into  the  grey  horizon-  then  a  swampy  wilderness  not 
seldom  inundated  by  the  sea,  the  haunt  of  crane  and 
bittern ;  the  lair  of  boar  and  aurochs — has  been 
drained  and  tilled. 

The  forest,  except  a  few  dwindling  strips  of  stunted 
wood,  harbour  for  fox  and  badger,  has  long  since 
disappeared. 

But  the  tall  cliffs  remain.  No  hand  but  that  of 
time  has  yet  been  laid  on  these  tremendous  ramparts. 
They  have  seen  Kelt  and  Roman,  Saxon  and  Norman, 
pass  along  the  road  which  sweeps  like  a  winding  river 
at  their  feet. 

It  is  historic  ground.  Every  hill-top  is  crowned 
with  its  earthen  rampart ;  every  road  follows  the 
course  of  a  Roman  way. 

At  Wedmore,  a  few  miles  out  on  the  moor,  are  the 
massy  foundations  of  Alfred's  summer  palace  ;  beyond 
the  low  blue  hills  are  still  ploughed  up,  at  Athelney, 
fragments  of  tiles  from  the  monastery  which  the  great 
West  Saxon  King  is  said  to  have  founded  there  in 
gratitude  for  his  deliverance. 

Round  the  grey  towers  of  Wells  cling  memories  of 
Ken  and  Still,  of  Laud  and  Wolsey. 

The  noble  ruins  of  Glastonbury  are  haunted  by  dim 
traditions  of  Dunstan  and  King  Arthur. 

Many  a  bold  son  of  the  district  faced  King  James's 
men  down  there  in  the  moor. 

Along  that  fatal  dyke  ; 

Where  Monmouth's  boors,  with  hearts  of  proof, 
Kept  Churchill's  foaming  horse  aloof ; 


Cheddar  Cliffs.  131 

And  scorned  to  fly,  nor  deigned  to  yield, 
While,  ere  he  fled  the  hopeless  field, 
Flashed  their  stout  leader's  pike. 

Behind  the  low  hills  above  the  gorge,  by  the  village 
of  Charterhouse,  lie  the  faint  vestiges  of  a  vanished 
town.  A  Roman  settlement  was  planted  there  among 
the  Kangic  lead-mines.  The  refuse  which  their  im- 
perfect appliances  forced  them  to  leave  has  been 
smelted  and  resmelted  since  then,  and  only  a  few 
years  back  the  works  were  still  in  operation.  Few 
signs  are  left  of  either  conquerors  or  conquered. 
Foundations  of  buildings  have  been  traced.  Fine 
Samian  ware  and  rude  British  pottery,  coins  and 
ornaments,  tools  and  weapons,  have  been  discovered 
in  'The  Town  Field.' 

A  broken  tablet  records  that  the  Armenian  legion 
was  posted  here.  Huge  blocks  of  lead  still  exist 
bearing  the  names  of  Vespasian  and  Antonine.  Little 
else  remains.  But,  in  all  the  country  side 

Some  trace  of  Imperial  tenure  now, 

Clashes  at  times  on  the  peasant's  plough  ; 
Fragments  of  graceful  vases 

With  gods  and  heroes  traced  ; 
Records  of  Roman  triumph 

In  letters  half  effaced  ; 
A  tarnished  ring,  whose  fiery  gems, 

Still  on  its  circle  set, 
From  the  far  sands  of  Indus  brought, 
Gleam  through  their  setting,  rudely  wrought, 
As  if  the  sky  their  hues  have  caught 

Flamed  in  their  glory  yet. 

9—2 


IN    THE    HEART    OF    THE    MOUNTAINS. 

RIGHT  in  the  heart  of  the  Bavarian  Highlands 
lies  the  wild  valley  of  the  Hollenthal.     It  is 
some  way  off  the  beaten  track.     The  nearest  village 


In  the  Heart  of  the  Mountains.          133 

is  three  hours  away,  and  there  is  not  a  single  outlying 
homestead  on  the  road  to  it. 

Indeed,  as  we  stood  under  the  broad  eaves  of  the 
forester's  house  in  Grainau,  saying  '  Good-bye  '  to  the 
assembled  household,  our  little  party  had  quite  the 
air  of  travellers  setting  off  for  some  unexplored  region, 
whose  safe  return  was  a  matter  of  uncertainty. 

The  path  lay  for  some  distance  through  the  forest, 
in  which  a  few  beech-trees  made  a  pleasant  relief 
among  the  sombre  ranks  of  red  and  white  pines. 
Some  of  the  latter  were  giants  indeed.  We  counted 
228  rings  in  a  fresh  stump,  and  there  were  other  trees, 
even  larger,  still  standing  in  their  prime. 

Emerging  from  the  forest,  we  followed  a  narrow 
path  cut  in  the  sides  of  the  Wachsenstein,  whose 
steep  flank  towered  4,000  feet  above  us,  while  beneath 
lay  the  magnificent  gorge  of  the  Max  Klamm — 500 
feet  sheer  down. 

Although  an  Alpine  climber  would  make  light  of  it, 
it  is  not  altogether  a  path  to  be  recommended  for 
those  with  a  tendency  to  dizziness.  On  the  day  we 
left  the  valley  ten  people  who  had  started  together  for 
the  Hollenthal  were  so  infected  by  the  nervousness  and 
final  collapse  of  one  of  the  party  that  they  all  turned 
back  before  reaching  the  most  ticklish  point 

Crossing  a  wooden  bridge  to  the  farther  side  of  the 
Klamm,  we  could  see  far  below  us  the  boiling  waters 
of  a  torrent  on  its  headlong  way  to  join  the  Isar. 

Deep  into  the  rock  the  stream  had  worn  its  way, 


134  idylls  of  the  Field. 

until  now  it  ran  300  feet  below  the  little  bridge  that 
spanned  the  narrow  chasm.  The  steep  sides  were 
covered  thick  with  bright  fronds  of  oak-fern,  and 
nodding  plumes  of  tall  spireas.  Patches  of  sweet 
pyrolas  nestled  in  its  sheltered  hollows ;  farther  down, 
spikes  of  yellow  foxglove  swayed  gently  in  the  wind ; 
clumps  of  dark  purple  gentian  had  found*  a  footing 
even  in  this  rocky  steep. 

The  track  now  was  less  distinct  and  occasionally 
difficult ;  we  had  to  help  one  of  the  party  by  fencing 
him  off  from  the  abyss  with  an  alpenstock  held  between 
two. 

At  last  we  came  down  to  the  stream,  and  crossing 
it  again  by  a  fallen  pine-trunk,  found  ourselves  near 
the  end  of  our  labours.  In  a  few  minutes  we  were 
well  within  the  Hollenthal. 

It  is  not  inaptly  styled  the  Valley  of  Hell.  It  is 
walled  in  by  the  steep  sides  of  giant  mountains,  culmi- 
nating at  the  farther  end  in  the  huge  mass  of  the 
Zugspitze— the  highest  peak  in  all  Bavaria,  whose 
twin  summits  bar  the  way  like  the  grim  guards  of  an 
enchanted  land. 

On  the  right  the  cliff  is  silvered  by  the  now  dwindling 
waters  of  the  Mariensprung,  a  fall  which  ceases,  so 
tradition  says,  on  the  Virgin's  birthday. 

Beyond  the  fall  the  mountain-side  is  bare,,  pre- 
cipitous, and  inaccessible — except  at  the  head  of  the 
valley,  where  a  climb  of  2,000  feet  leads  up  to  the 
Riffel,  and  thence  down  to  the  Eibsee. 


In  the  Heart  of  the  Mountains.          135 

The  left  side  of  the  valley  is  irregularly  clothed 
with  pines,  and  there  are  patches  of  forest  further  on. 
A  great  part  of  the  bottom  of  the  gorge  is  covered  by 
a  broad  belt  of  stones — the  bed  of  a  great  torrent  in 
winter  time.  In  summer  there  is  still  a  stream  fed  by 
the  Zugspitze  Glacier,  but  it  runs  under  the  stones. 

Right  before  us,  at  the  foot  of  the  pine-covered 
slope,  was  our  hut. 

I  suppose  that  everyone,  as  he  first  read  the  story  of 
Robinson  Crusoe,  was  fired  with  the  desire  to  go  and 
live  on  an  uninhabited  island — to  be  shipwrecked  in 
preference  to  any  other  way  of  getting  there;  to  go 
about  clad  in  the  quaint  costume  of  that  amiable 
recluse,  and  armed  with  guns  of  ancient  pattern  but 
unrivalled  performance ;  and  to  live  all  alone  in  a  hut 
constructed  by  his  own  hands. 

Here  was  our  chance,  then.  Here  was  a  log-hut  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  wilderness,  far  away  from  sight 
or  sound  of  man.  In  the  silence  of  this  lonely  valley 
was  a  solitude  like  that  of  Crusoe. 

The  hut  was  built  for  the  use  of  the  foresters  of  the 
district,  and  is  like  an  Alpine  refuge,  only  rather  more 
clean,  and  dry,  and  comfortable.  There  was  not  much 
superfluous  furniture.  There  was  a  stove  and  sauce- 
pans ;  the  usual  shelf  of  hay  to  sleep  on ;  and  blankets 
of  the  ordinary  Alpine  colour  and  pattern — that  is  to 
say,  black  and  tattered. 

We  were  soon  in  possession.  In  a  few  minutes  a 
fire  was  crackling  in  the  little  stove ;  a  fatigue-party 


136  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

went  off  to  the  spring  for  water  ;  and  it  was  not  long 
before  we  were  engaged  on  our  first  meal  in  our  new 
quarters. 

The  little  hinged  table  just  held  the  bread,  the 
meat,  and  honey;  there  was  no  room  for  plates  if 
there  had  been  any. 

The  want  of  these  was  supplied  by  spare  pine 
shingles  for  mending  the  roof,  which  we  held  on  our 
knees,  and  changed  for  the  second  course  by  the 
simple  process  of  turning  them  over.  Our  diet  was 
plain,  perhaps,  but  even  a  queen  has  been  known  to 
have  no  better  fare  than  bread  and  honey,  whereas 
we,  happy  savages  in  our  lonely  hut,  had  that,  and 
bilberry-jam  as  well.  Dinner  over,  three  of  us  started 
to  explore  the  valley,  while  the  artist  got  to  work  at 
his  canvas. 

From  a  patch  of  forest  further  up,  we  started  a 
stag,  that  went  bounding  across  in  tremendous  leaps 
and  up  the  slope  on  the  left. 

High  overhead  floated  a  pair  of  buzzards — dark 
against  the  vivid  blue— calling  now  and  then  to  each 
other  as  they  sailed  in  vast  circles.  Once  a  hoopoe  flew 
by  and  settled  on  a  dead  pine  not  twenty  yards  away. 

In  the  trees  were  crested  tits,  and  black  redstarts, 
and  we  heard  both  the  nutcracker  and  the  great  black 
woodpecker. 

We  noticed  numbers  of  a  brilliant  beetle,  a 
Chrysomela,  green,  with  a  gold  border,  on  the  leaves 
of  the  burdock. 


In  the  Heart  of  the  Mountains.          137 

It  was  late  for  flowers ;  but  there  were  a  few  tall 
gentians  and  occasional  patches  of  holly  fern,  with 
seas  of  cranberry  plants,  the  vivid  scarlet  of  whose 
leaves  made,  with  the  yellow  stains  of  the  lichen, 
happy  touches  of  relieving  colour  among  the  piles  of 
grey  rock — the  long-accumulated  spoils  of  storm  and 
avalanche. 

At  the  head  of  the  gorge  is  a  waterfall  of  great 
height — 1,000  feet  the  foresters  say ;  though  its  silvery 
column  was  but  slender  now. 

When  the  labours  of  the  day  were  over,  and  we 
gathered  round  the  door  in  the  deepening  twilight, 
there  was  a  cloud  upon  the  brow  of  the  man  whose 
turn  it  was  to  cook  for  the  company. 

A  pot  in  which  he  was  stewing  bilberries  for  supper 
had  taken  it  into  its  ill-balanced  mind  to  topple 
over,  and  spill  half  the  precious  compound  on  the 
floor. 

To  add  to  his  misery,  the  tea  which  we  had  purchased 
of  an  Apothek  in  Garmisqh  could  not  be  induced,  by 
any  persuasion  whatever,  to  impart  any  colour,  to 
speak  of,  to  the  water.  He  had  stirred  it  vigorously 
with  no  effect ;  in  vain  had  he  put  in  another  spoonful ; 
he  had  placed  the  teapot  on  the  very  stove  to  no 
purpose  at  all. 

It  was  some  consolation  to  him  at  such  a  moment 
to  be  reminded  of  Darwin's  camp  among  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  '  cursed  pot '  which  '  did  not  choose  to 
boil  potatoes,'  and  his  soul  was  soothed  at  length  with 


138  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

the  reflection  that  no  man,  at  such  an  altitude,  could 
have  extracted  more  colour  from  the  leaves. 

Night  came  on  very  rapidly.  When  the  sun  sank 
behind  a  shoulder  of  the  Zugspitze  there  was  a  brief 
but  magnificent  afterglow  that  bathed  the  stern  faces 
of  the  mountain  ramparts  with  a  flood  of  rosy  light. 

Then  all  was  cold  and  grey  again ;  the  stars  came 
out  all  at  once ;  the  plash  of  the  waterfalls  sounded 
nearer  and  more  distinct ;  and  an  awesome  feeling  of 
solitude  settled  down  upon  us  as  we  stood  silently 
round  the  door  before  turning  in. 

The  shelf  on  which  we  were  to  sleep  held  four 
exactly,  two  at  each  end. 

The  distribution  of  blankets  was  a  matter  of  some 
difficulty,  from  their  age  and  condition  ;  but  all  were 
at  length  satisfied — or  at  least  quieted,  and  we  essayed 
to  sleep.  Some  hours  later  we  were  roused  by  hail 
pattering  on  the  roof,  and  we  heard  distant  thunder 
rumbling  among  the  mountains. 

One  night  we  heard  strange  noises  outside,  as  of 
some  large  animal  stamping  and  knocking  against  the 
walls.  It  was  too  dark  to  see  anything  when  we  went 
out,  and  no  doubt  the  beast,  whatever  it  was,  took 
fright  at  the  first  sound  of  opening  the  door. 

By  the  middle  of  the  third  day  we  began  to  have 
fears  of  famine.  Our  appetites  had  grown  to  such  an 
alarming  extent  that  the  bread  was  vanishing  at  a  pace 
we  had  never  contemplated.  However,  a  man  who 
came  into  the  valley  to  look  after  some  heifers  took 


In  the  Heart  of  the  Mountains.          139 

back  a  message  to  Ostler  Toni  in  Grainau  ;  and  sure 
enough,  at  six  the  next  morning,  appeared  that  worthy 
with  a  yard  of  bread  on  his  back ;  and  more  welcome 
still,  some  letters — carefully  wrapped  in  two  handker- 
chiefs and  a  sheet  of  paper. 

The  last  evening  we  made  a  mighty  bonfire.  Trunks 
of  dead  fir-trees  in  the  middle,  a  huge  pile  of  dry 
branches  round  them,  a  match  applied,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  whole  mass  was  a  vast  pyramid  of  flames. 
A  wonderful  stream  of  sparks  towered  straight  up  into 
the  night.  The  black  fir-trees  that  stood  round  like 
sentinels,  and  the  grey  mountain-sides,  were  lighted  up 
as  with  a  sunset ;  and  four  wild-looking  forms  seen  in 
the  lurid  glare  might  have  made  a  night-o'ertaken 
wanderer  of  the  Zugspitze  think  that  the  valley  had 
earned  its  name  in  sober  earnest,  and  that  the  figures 
round  the  fire  were  kobolds  planning  mischief  for  the 
morrow. 


THE    HEART    OF    THE    FOREST. 


THE  Eibsee  is  one  of  a  group  of  many  lakes  which 
lie  scattered  among  the  Bavarian  Highlands,  and 
look,  from  the  top  of  the  mountains,  like  silver  studs 
on  the  great  round  shield  of  the  landscape. 


The  Heart  of  the  Forest.  141 

When  under  the  deep  blue  sky  of  summer  the  great 
mountains  wear  no  sign  of  winter  beyond  a  few 
white  patches  that  linger  in  deep  rifts  here  and  there 
or  a  scanty  glacier  that  fills  some  cool  hollow  at  the 
foot  of  a  precipice,  there  are  few  haunts  of  the  wander- 
ing Briton  more  dear  to  the  lover  of  nature  and  the 
follower  of  art  among  the  wild  recesses  of  these 
southern  Highlands. 

The  hostelry  upon  its  shore  seems  like  the  last 
outpost  of  civilization,  pushed  to  the  farthest  limits  of 
the  world. 

Close  round  the  broad-eaved  chalet  gather  the  dark 
ranks  of  pines  that  like  a  sea  stretch  away  far  up  the 
steep  sides  of  the  great  amphitheatre  that  rises  round 
the  lake.  Above  the  dark  waves  of  the  forest  tower 
the  huge  buttresses  of  the  mountain  wall — ending  at 
last  in  the  rugged  majesty  of  the  monarch  of  the 
Highlands. 

The  soft  air  that  steals  in  at  the  open  windows  is 
heavy  with  the  sweet  breath  of  the  forest.  From  the 
little  balcony  you  may  hear  the  call  of  the  hoopoe,  or 
see  the  bright  plumage  of  the  oriole  flash  among  the 
shadows  of  the  trees. 

From  your  window  you  may  watch  the  shy  black 
woodpecker  settle  on  the  topmost  bough  of  a  withered 
pine,  whose  skeleton  arms  rise  grey  and  gaunt  above 
its  younger  comrades.  He  makes  a  fine  figure  up 
there  with  his  sable  plumage  and  his  crimson  crown, 
looking  up  now  and  then  to  utter  his  long  -  drawn 
melancholy  cry.  Now  his  call  is  answered  from  the 


142  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

forest ;  now  he  takes  wing,  and  with  laboured  flight 
plunges  down  among  the  green  waves  below. 

Among  the  pines  on  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  a 
party  of  crested  tits  alight.  Clinging  with  their  tiny 
feet  to  the  brown  clusters  that  hang  thick  under  the 
boughs,  they  split  off  the  loose  scales  from  the  cones 
in  search  of  insects,  or  rummage  among  the  long  tufts 
of  grey  lichen  that  drape  these  patriarchs  of  the  forest. 
Now  climbing  among  the  fir-cones,  now  swinging  head 
downwards,  full  of  grace  and  life,  they  have  the  busy 
lively  ways  of  all  their  race,  but  they  have  less  to  say 
to  each  other  as  they  work,  and  the  notes  they  utter 
now  and  then  are  quite  unlike  the  familiar  voices  of 
their  more  common  relations. 

There  are  generally  a  few  black  redstarts  flitting 
about  among  the  rocks  near  the  house,  and  if  you  keep 
still  they  may  even  alight  on  the  balcony  by  you  as 
you  sit  looking  out  over  the  landscape. 

It  is  but  a  few  paces  from  the  hostel  to  the  lake. 

You  make  your  way  down  to  the  water  through  a 
group  of  swarthy  mountaineers,  who  loiter  round  the 
doorway.  Picturesque  of  dress  and  pleasant  of  speech, 
they  are  a  turbulent  race,  these  wild  dwellers  by  the 
lonely  lake— slayers  of  the  King's  deer,  smugglers  of 
contraband  goods  over  the  border,  at  feud  with  the 
foresters  and  the  frontier  guard. 

Round  the  broken  coastline  runs  a  fringe  of  stones, 
then  a  bright  green  line  of  grass  and  ferns,  and  every- 
where a  dense  growth  of  pines  that  crowd  to  the  shore 
as  if  to  bar  the  way. 


The  Heart  of  the  Forest.  143 

Along  the  farther  side  there  glides  a  skiff,  across  the 
water  floats  the  beat  of  oars,  and  clear  and  shrill  at 
intervals  comes  the  chorus  of  a  song. 

The  sounds  have  ceased.  There  is  silence  every- 
where, save  that  from  the  mountain-side  you  hear  at 
times  the  soft  plash  of  a  waterfall,  or  the  faint  tinkle  of 
a  cow-bell  from  a  distant  alp. 

The  soft  blue  shadows  of  the  pine-trees  as  you  drift 
along  suggest  a  cool  retreat.  You  ground  your  skiff 
on  a  little  beach  of  shingle,  and  go  ashore  into  the 
forest.  Tall  silver  firs  on  either  hand  rise  like  the 
columns  of  the  green  canopy  overhead.  About  their 
roots  is  spread  a  thick  carpet  of  ferns,  and  moss,  and 
bilberry  plants. 

At  your  feet  there  lies  a  pool,  as  green  as  emerald. 
The  rocky  shore,  the  stately  pines,  are  mirrored  in  its 
perfect  face.  Among  the  smooth  stems  of  the  trees 
the  eye  may  catch  brief  glimpses  of  the  dim  recesses 
of  the  forest. 

There  is  no  pathway  here,"  no  trace  of  man.  The 
footprints  on  the  shore  are  of  the  roebuck  and  the 
heron.  The  signs  of  labour  are  the  half-gnawed  fir- 
cones some  squirrel  has  scattered  on  the  ground. 
Two  great  dragon-flies,  with  spots  of  purple  on  their 
rustling  wings,  poise  over  the  water.  No  other  sound, 
nor  sign  of  life.  It  is  an  enchanted  spot.  Are  there 
no  shadowy  figures  stealing  away  into  the  forest,  no 
dryads  peering  from  behind  the  trees  ?  It  is  a  place 

Where  elves  hold  midnight  revel, 
And  fairies  linger  still. 


144  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

You  climb  over  the  rocky  barrier  of  the  shore,  and  stroll 
into  the  forest. 

Life  is  not  abundant  in  a  place  like  this.  You  may 
wander  for  hours  and  see  no  living  thing. 
.  At  last  there  is  a  sound  of  something  falling 
on  the  withered  leaves.  From  far  overhead  looks 
down  a  black  squirrel,  whose  white  breast  relieves  the 
inky  colour  of  his  coat.  He  is  busy  at  his  dinner,  but, 
if  you  move  a  step  nearer,  he  drops  his  fir-cone  and 
disappears  behind  a  branch.  Next  moment  you  catch 
sight  of  him  in  another  tree  racing  like  the  born 
acrobat  he  is,  along  boughs  that  hardly  bend  beneath 
his  tread. 

He  is  gone.  The  silence  is  the  deeper  for  his 
going. 

The  sense  of  solitude  is  almost  painful.  The  great 
trees  divide  you  from  the  outer  world.  The  green 
roof  shuts  out  the  very  sky. 

It  is  a  relief  to  come  upon  a  little  clearing  where  the 
pines  stand  back  to  make  way  for  the  sunshine.  The 
ground  is  brightened  with  a  touch  of  colour.  Tall 
yellow  foxgloves  lift  their  heads  above  the  ferns ;  and, 
among  the  brilliant  flowers  of  a  patch  of  willow  herb, 
pale  Alpine  butterflies  sun  their  lovely  wyings.  Across 
the  sky  a  great  buzzard  floats,  sailing  in  wide  circles, 
calling  now  and  then  perhaps  to  some  comrade  beyond 
our  ken. 

There  is  a  sudden  rustle  on  the  dead  leaves.  Light 
footfalls  are  approaching  from  behind  the  rocks.  You 


The  Heart  of  the  Forest.  145 

crouch  closer  in  the  shadows  and  watch  with  bated 
breath  as  a  roe  saunters  idly  down  to  cool  her  parched 
tongue  in  a  little  pool  among  the  boulders.  She 
pauses  a  moment  to  browse  upon  a  tuft  of  bracken. 
She  scents  no  peril  in  the  air ;  her  great  eyes  are  calm 
and  fearless.  She  moves  nearer ;  she  is  not  twenty 
yards  away.  Your  foot  slips  off  a  stone ;  it  was  the 
slightest  movement  in  the  world,  but  the  keen  eyes  are 
ware  of  danger.  There  is  a  rush  of  flying  feet;  an 
eddy  of  dry  leaves,  as  if  caught  up  by  a  passing  gust, 
here  and  there  along  the  slope,  and  the  startled 
creature  has  disappeared  in  the  forest. 

A  few  paces  further  you  come  again  upon  the  lake, 
which  here  thrusts  a  long  arm  of  silver  in  among  the 
trees.  A  troop  of  nutcrackers  are  wrangling  in  the 
pine-tops,  screaming  like  their  brighter  cousin  the  jay, 
and  sailing  into  fhe  air  at  times  with  the  grace  of  a 
soaring  swallow. 

As  you  make  your  slow  wray  through  the  tangled 
undergrowth  that  skirts  the  shore,  a  huge  bird  breaks 
from  cover  almost  at  your  feet  with  a  commotion  that 
makes  you  stop  short  in  amazement.  It  is  a  caper- 
cailzie-— a  noble  bird,  the  prince  of  forest  fowl. 

He  is  just  long  enough  in  getting  clear  of  the  bushes 
for  you  to  mark  the  gorget  of  rich  green  upon  his  breast, 
his  crested  head,  and  the  crimson  streak  over  the  eye 
which  is  the  badge  of  honour  of  his  clan. 

He  flies  straight  over  the  water  with  a  great  rush  of 
wings.  He  is  making  for  the  farther  shore,  and  you 


146  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

watch  his  figure  dwindle  in  the  distance  until  at  last  he 
sinks  down  among  the  shadows  of  the  pines. 

But  it  is  time  to  turn  back.  It  is  drawing  near  the 
hour  of  sunset,  for  the  horizon  here  is  half-way  up  the 
sky.  By  the  time  you  have  got  back  to  the  boat  and 
paddled  across  the  lake,  the  hush  of  night  is  already 
settling  down  upon  the  little  hostelry.  Bold  and  clear 
against  the  saffron  west  stand  the  stern  outlines  of  the 
mountains. 

No  sound  disturbs  the  silence  but  the  rush  of  a 
torrent  or  the  wail  of  some  night-wandering  bird. 

Suddenly  the  night  comes  down.  From  the  dark 
vault  overhead  myriads  of  stars  look  down  into  the 
glassy  lake. 

Or,  after  a  day  of  heat  and  ominous  gloom,  there 
descends  upon  the  mountains  the  terror  of  a  midnight 
storm.  How  awful  in  the  still  hours  of  night  sounds 
the  loud  artillery  of  heaven  !  Far  through  the  tossing 
forest  howls  the  sudden  tempest.  The  rude  windows 
rattle  with  a  great  rush  of  rain.  An  incessant  blaze  of 
quivering  light  reveals  the  calm  faces  of  the  mountains, 
looking  down  unmoved  upon  the  tumult  Along  the 
stupendous  cliffs  rolls  the  long  roar  of  the  thunder — 

While  frighted  echoes,  in  the  gorges  round, 
Waked  for  a  moment,  calling  each  to  each 
With  fainter  voices,  sink  again  to  sleep. 


A    NEiW    FACE    AT    THE    DOOR. 

ONCE  more  the  sky  is  blue,  the  sun  is  warm. 
But  although  rain  and  wind  and  misty  air  are 
forgotten  for  a  season,  the  stormy  weather  has  left  its 
mark  upon  the  landscape.  Bright  days  may  lengthen 
out  for  us  the  glory  of  this  golden  year,  but  Summer 
sleeps,  no  spell  can  wake  her  more.  A  week  ago  the 
elms  were  all  untouched  by  the  keen  autumn  air ;  the 
creeper  had  not  scattered  on  the  grass  its  crimson 
leaves.  The  green  of  the  woodlands  was  the  green  of 
summer  still.  But  now  along  the  woodland  ways  the 
leaves  begin  to  fall ;  the  needles  of  the  pine  are 
scattered  on  the  path.  There  is  gold  upon  the  leafage 
of  the  lime  ;  a  ruddy  glow  is  kindling  on  the  rowan. 
There  is  a  look  of  autumn  everywhere.  The  hawthorn 
and  the  ash  are  shrivelled  by  the  wind ;  the  flowers 
are  beaten  down,  the  birds  are  still.  Summer  was 
with  us  but  one  short  week  ago,  and  now—'  There  is 
a  new  face  at  the  door.'  Now  twilight  airs  grow 
keen  and  cold.  There  is  rime  upon  the  moorland 
grass ;  there  is  snow  upon  the  hills  of  Wales. 


148  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

A  week  ago.  the  bells  in  all  the  country-side  were 
ringing  for  the  Harvest  Home ;  the  tents  of  village 
.festivals  were  white  on  many  a  glebe. 

Five  centuries,  at  least,  this  church  has  crowned  the 
hill-slope,  looking  down  upon  the  hamlet.  Five  long 
centuries  the  children  of  the  village,  week  by  week, 
have  gathered  in  the  shadow  of  its  ancient  yew.  For 
ages  the  music  of  its  mellow  bells  has  summoned  all 
its  sons  of  toil,  when  fields  were  reaped  and  sheaves 
were  safe  at  home,  to  bow  the  knee  to  the  Giver  of 
seed-time  and  harvest,  summer  and  winter. 

But  never,  perhaps,  in  all  its  history,  has  the  old 
Norman  church  been  draped  with  richer  trophies. 
Never,  in  the  memory  of  man,  has  a  richer  reaping 
crowned  a  more  generous  year.  And  as  they  joined 
with  fervent  hearts  in  the  thanksgiving,  a  look  of  con- 
tent was  on  the  faces  of  the  farmers  that  seemed  to 
soften  down  and  smooth  away  the  lines  of  care,  that 
years  of  hard  times  and  barren  seasons  had  graven  on 
their  rugged  foreheads.  Yes,  it  has  been  a  perfect 
year.  In  golden  weather  the  rich  hay  harvest  was 
gathered  in.  The  August  rains  refreshed  the  thirsty 
fields.  The  first  weeks  of  September,  bright  and  fair, 
brought  no  rain  to  mar  the  sunshine,  no  clouds  to  dim 
the  splendour  of  the  harvest  moon. 

But  in  the  church,  among  the  ripened  sheaves,  deft 
fingers  had  twined  round  the  old  Norman  pillars, 
festoons  of  bryony  hung  with  dark  purple  leaves, 
wreaths  of  the  wild  clematis  white  with  winged  seeds, 


A  New  Face  at  the  Door.  149 

sprays  of  barberry,  tasselled  with  crimson  fruit,  boughs 
of  hedge-maple,  touched  with  autumn  gold. 

It  is  in  letters  such  as  these  that  Nature  loves  to 
write  the  story  of  the  year,  in  clear  and  vivid  signs 
that  he  who  runs  may  read. 

And  among  the  houses  of  the  hamlet,  that  nestle 
half-hidden  among  sheltering  trees,  are  the  sounds  of 
the  labours  of  the  autumn — the  sound  of  the  flail  upon 
the  granary  floor,  the  low  rumble  of  the  cider  mill ; 
while  the  scent  of  the  crushed  apples  hangs  heavy  on 
the  air,  and  from  distant  fields  of  stubble  comes  the 
creaking  of  the  plough. 

Not  yet,  from  the  orchards,  has  all  the  fruit  been 
gathered  in. 

Still  upon  the  lichened  boughs  hangs  the  rich 
harvest,  of  russet,  and  crimson,  and  gold.  Heaped 
high  in  the  long  grass  among  the  trees,  piles  of  bright 
fruit  are  ready  for  the  waggon,  that  even  now  is  brim- 
ming over  with  its  fragrant  load. 

Windfalls,  scattered  broadcast  right  and  left,  shine 
like  fire  among  the  green — apples  of  Sodom,  some  of 
them,  for  all  their  beauty,  with  rough  taste  that  defends 
them  well. 

Here  the  wasps  hold  high  revel  among  the  fallen 
fruit.  Starlings  and  finches  make  havoc  of  the 
scattered  spoil.  Rooks,  too,  are  terrible  fellows  in  an 
orchard,  and  will  make  short  work  of  the  fruit  of  any 
particular  tree  that  may  happen  to  take  their  fancy. 

Perhaps    the  most  destructive  visitor  ever  known 


150  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

among  the  apples  is  the  crossbill,  whom  old  writers 
describe  as  appearing  in  great  numbers  in  the  time  of 
harvest,  and  cutting  the  fruit  in  two  at  one  stroke  of 
its  strangely  shaped  bill,  merely  to  get  at  the  pips 
inside;  or,  as  another  writer  says:  'haveinge  a  bill 
with  one  beake  wrythinge  over  the  other,  which  would 
presently  bore  a  greate  hole  in  the  apple  and  make 
way  to  the  kernells  ;  they  were  of  the  bignesse  of  a  bull- 
finch, the  henne  right  like  the  henne  of  the  bull- 
finch in  coulour ;  the  cock  a  very  glorious  bird,  in  a 
manner,  al  redde  or  yellowe  on  the  brest,  back,  and 
head.  The  oldest  man  never  hearde  or  reade  of  any 
such-like  bird.' 

The  increased  cultivation  of  larch  and  pine  trees 
since  the  date  (1593)  of  this  inroad  has  probably 
turned  the  attention  of  the  birds  elsewhere,  for  little 
has  been  heard  of  such  depredations  in  modern  times. 

Beyond  the  orchard  a  lane  leads  towards  the  hills,  a 
pleasant  way,  a  road  seldom  trodden  by  foot  of  man, 
marked  by  wheel  -  tracks  only  when,  in  the  late 
autumn,  the  bracken-gatherers  bring  down  their  loads 
of  brown  litter.  The  steep  banks  are  a  very  jungle  of 
bramble  and  fern  and  travellers'  joy.  Few  flowers 
linger  by  the  way  ;  a  few  spikes  of  agrimony  scented 
still ;  dark  blue  scabious  and  rich  purple  loose-strife. 
The  great  convolvulus  still  hangs  its  white  bells  on 
the  hedgerow,  but  its  leaves  are  burnt  and  brown. 

Under  a  broad  oak,  that  spreads  green  arms  over- 
head, a  few  grey  feathers  scattered  on  the  grass  show 


A  New  Face  at  the  Door.  151 

where,  to  their  feast  of  acorns,  the  ringdoves  came 
down,  ere  a  soul  was  stirring  in  the  village. 

Among  the  old  orchard-trees  over  the  hedge  there 
sounds  the  chiff-chaffs  cheery  note.  Almost  the  last 
he  is  to  leave  us  of  all  the  throng  that  crossed  the  seas 
for  a  brief  summer  in  the  north. 

The  swallow  too  still  lingers.  In  a  cartshed  at  the 
farm  below,  there  is  even  a  nestful  of  youngsters  that 
have  not  yet  proved  the  wings  that  ere  long  must  bear 
them  far  to  southward,  across  the  burning  sands  of  the 
Sahara. 

From  the  topmost  branches  of  the  oak  comes  the 
musical  call  of  a  nuthatch,  and  now  and  then  the 
sharp  tapping  of  his  bill  against  the  rugged  bark. 

Birds  are  very  silent  now.  Only  the  robin  sings. 
Among  all  the  minstrels  of  the  spring-time,  we  are  apt 
to  pass  him  over.  But  our  ingratitude  makes  no 
difference  to  him  ;  there  is  no  note  of  murmuring  to 
mar  the  beauty  of  his  music. 

Other  singers  come  and  go ;  we  listen  for  a  brief 
space  to  their  sweet  melodies,  and  then,  as  the  days 
grow  longer,  we  miss  them  one  by  one.  But  the 
robin's  cheerful  strain  is  sweeter  now  and  clearer  than 
when,  in  the  chill  March  weather,  he  sang  to  cheer  his 
mate.  All  day  long  he  charms  our  listening  ears. 
One  sweet  singer  haunts  the  gable  of  the  barn; 
another  loves  the  topmost  rung  of  the  tall  ladder  in 
the  stackyard,  where,  upon  the  yellow  thatch,  the 
silent  finches  gather  in  a  busy  crowd. 


152  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

The  lane  opens  on  a  long  slope  of  hill,  crowned  by 
grey  limestone  crags.  Broad  sheets  of  sunburnt 
bracken  are  outlined  by  belts  of  withered  grass. 

Bright  among  these  sombre  tones  are  the  patches 
of  the  golden  furze.  A  gracious  flower  it  is  for  all  its 
armoured  stems.  Is  it  not  true  that 

'  Kissing  is  never  out  of  season,  when  the  gorse  is  in  bloom  '  ? 

The  heather  has  lost  already  the  splendour  of  its 
prime. 

But  a  few  flowers  still  linger  on  the  broad  hillside. 
There  is  the  mountain  meadow-sweet,  and  a  late  St. 
John's  Wort  or  two ;  perhaps  a  few  spikes  of  sweet 
ladies'  tresses,  breathing  still  their  sweet  perfume. 

High  above  the  slope  a  kestrel  is  hovering.  The 
sun  is  bright  upon  his  chestnut  feathers,  as  on  quiver- 
ing wings  he  hangs  poised  upon  the  air.  He  pays  no 
heed  to  a  troop  of  swallows  fluttering  round  him,  but 
scans  with  keen  eyes  all  the  hill,  all  the  spaces  among 
the  gorse  or  ling.  Now  he  swoops  nearly  touching 
the  ground,  but  recovers  himself,  and  hovers  again. 
Now,  sudden  and  swift,  he  falls,  and  is  lost  behind 
the  shoulder  of  the  hill. 

It  is  growing  late.  The  rocky  brow  above,  darken- 
ing against  the  saffron  west,  flings  its  shadow  far  down 
on  the  bracken  at  our  feet. 

A  party  of  bats  that  have  left  their  shelter,  ere  yet 
the  sun  is  down,  flutter  on  dark  wings  across  the 
glowing  sky.  From  the  elms  below  a  woodpecker  is 


A  New  Face  at  the  Door.  153 

calling.     The  mellowed  voices  of  the  rooks  rise  faint 
from  distant  fields. 

Just  off  the  homeward  path  that  wanders  down  the 
steep  slope  of  the  orchard  lies  a  fallen  tree,  its  ancient 
stem  half  hidden  among  grass  and  ferns.  Strong 
young  branches  springing  upward  arch  it  over.  It  is 

the  very 

'  seat  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made.' 

No  breath  of  wind  sways  the  long  arms  of  briar  and 
tall  plumes  of  grass  that  crown  the  hedgerow.  Nothing 
is  stirring  but  the  gnats  that  hover  in  the  twilight  air, 
tiny  feet  of  timid  field-mice  rustling  in  the  bushes,  or 
restless  blackbirds  calling  to  each  other  in  the  thick 
shelter  of  the  hedges  in  the  lane. 

The  smoke  of  a  woodman's  fire,  mingling  with  the 
soft  vapour  that  rises  from  the  meadows,  steals  slow 
along  the  distant  hill. 

Through  the  mist  that  veils  the  far  horizon,  a  line 
of  glory  shows  for  a  moment  on  the  cold  grey  water — 
the  last  gleam  of  the  sun — 

'  Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 
And  sinking  into  the  sea.' 

Yonder  among  the  trees  shows  the  white  roof  of 
Barton  Camp,  the  shelter  of  the  little  colony  of  waifs 
that,  year  by  year,  are  brought  by  kind  hands  out  of 
dark  corners  of  the  city,  to  taste  the  sweet  air  of  the 
hills,  to  wander  through  green  fields  and  pleasant 
lanes. 


154  Idylk  of  the  Field. 

The  camp  is  silent  now :  the  birds  have  flown. 
They  have  gone  back  into  the  smoke  and  turmoil  of 
the  streets,  their  young  lives  brightened  by  memories 
of  meadow  and  hilltop,  of  songs  of  birds  and  scent  of 
flowers  :  memories,  perchance,  that 

In  the  sorrow  and  strife  of  their  after-life, 
Will  come  back  to  their  hearts  in  dreams. 


HIS    NATIVE    HEATH. 


HIS    NATIVE    HEATH. 


AMONG  the  birds  which  we  reckon  on  our  list  as 
British,  there  are  not  a  few  which,  once  native 
here,  have  with  changed  conditions  gradually  dimi- 
nished in  numbers,  until  being  no  longer  regular 
residents,  they  appear  now  only  as  stragglers  from 
more  settled  haunts. 

The  engineer's  level  has  ever  been  more  fatal  to 
aboriginal  races  than  the  long-bow  or  the  rifle.  The 
draining  of  the  fens  has  been  more  disastrous  to  our 
native  birds  than  the  invention  of  gunpowder. 

No  longer  in  the  dwindling  reed  forests  is  there 
found  a  shelter  for  the  tall  figure  of  the  crane.  The 
ploughshare  and  the  spade  have  long  since  driven  the 
ruff  from  his  haunts  among  the  marshes. 

Many  birds  of  prey,  again,  from  long  and  ruthless 
persecution,  are  almost  extinct.  It  is  rare  to  see  even 
a  peregrine  or  a  harrier ;  while  the  kite  and  the  osprey 
linger  only  in  jealously  guarded  sanctuaries. 

In  the  case  of  the  chough,  however,  it  seems  difficult 
to  assign  any  sufficient  reason  for  its  increasing  rarity. 


156  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

Its  haunts  have  not  been  disturbed.  It  has  not  been 
hunted  down  for  its  misdeeds  by  vengeful  keeper  or 
exasperated  farmer. 

But  from  some  cause  or  other  there  is  no  doubt  that 
it  has  disappeared  from  many  spots  where  once  it  was 
a  familiar  resident.  Along  the  white  cliffs  of  Dover  it 
'  wings  the  midway  air  '  no  more. 

There  is  hardly  a  spot  along  the  coast  from  Kent  to 
Cornwall  where  now  it  holds  its  own. 

In  Scotland  and  Ireland  there  is  the  same  story — 
the  same  gradual  dwindling  away  of  a  bird  which 
appears  once  to  have  been  common. 

No  doubt  there  are  nooks  along  the  Cornish  coast 
where  this  graceful  bird  still  looks  down  upon  the 
surge  that  thunders  in  the  caverns  far  below.  And  at 
other  points,  round  Wales  especially,  there  are  still 
unharried  haunts  from  which  the  chough  is  not  yet 
driven. 

On  the  Continent  of  Europe  it  lives  less  by  the  sea, 
and  makes  its  home  among  the  mountains ;  and  we, 
too,  possess  at  least  one  such  hill  fortress  where  still 
the  chough  breeds  undisturbed. 

An  old  miners'  path  winds  down  the  steep  side  of 
the  valley  to  the  bank  of  the  river.  On  either  hand 
are  abundant  traces  of  old  workings.  To  the  left  are 
heaped  huge  piles  of  refuse  ore,  from  these  long  dis- 
used galleries  that  run  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  hills. 

Hard,  indeed,  have  the  silent  slaves  of  Nature 
striven  to  cover  up  these  scars  that  mar  the  beauty  of 


His  Native  Heath.  157 

the  grand  ravine.  A  hundred  plants  are  spreading 
bright  leaves  over  the  rubbish.  Clustering  ferns  fill 
with  their  tender  foliage  rifts  in  the  shattered  rock. 
Moss  grows  thick  about  the  mouldering  timbers  of  the 
galleries  whose  rough  walls  are  draped  with  tapestries 
of  living  green,  glistening  with  the  water  that  trickles 
from  the  dripping  roof. 

The  path  crosses  the  river  by  a  line  of  ancient 
stepping-stones,  whose  dark  forms,  worn  down  by  cen- 
turies of  passing  feet,  are  now  hardly  visible  above  the 
brown  waters  of  the  swirling  stream. 

A  party  of  crows,  on  the  watch  perhaps  for  some 
hapless  lamb  drifting  down  the  river,  fly  out  of  the 
alders  on  the  bank  and  alight  in  a  cluster  on  the 
branches  of  a  withered  tree. 

There  are  few  birds  in  the  valley.  There  is  a  wag- 
tail pacing  with  dainty  steps  along  the  muddy  shore, 
and  a  dipper  leaves  his  perch  on  a  boulder  in  mid- 
stream as  we  cross  the  stones  ;  but  with  so  few  trees 
and  such  little  cultivation  birds  are  scarce. 

The  path  leaves  the  river  and  climbs  the  opposite 
slope. 

On  the  broad  top  of  yonder  knoll,  whose  steep  sides 
of  rock  are  overshadowed  with  a  dense  crown  of  oak- 
leaves,  are  the  grey  ruins  of  an  ancient  camp.  Mere 
heaps  of  stones  they  are,  peering  out  through  a  wilder- 
ness of  brake  fern  and  heather.  But  around  them 
lingers  yet  the  memory  of  the  bold  chief  whose  altered 
name  clings  to  the  historic  hilltop. 


158  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

At  a  sudden  turn  in  the  path  a  great  bird  rises  from 
the  side  of  the  road,  and,  spreading  wide  his  mighty 
wings,  drifts  leisurely  down  to  the  wall  under  the 
encampment.  It  is  a  buzzard,  a  bird  tamer  than 
many  of  his  fierce  race,  perhaps  because  his  solitude 
is  seldom  broken.  And  now  he  lingers  until  we  can 
see  the  markings  on  his  rich  brown  coat.  Then  at 
last  he  rises  once  more,  and  we  lose  sight  of  him 
among  the  trees. 

Yonder  is  another  that,  floating  on  motionless  wings 
with  every  variety  of  graceful  curve,  soars  in  ever- 
widening  circles  along  the  mountain  side  until  it  gains 
the  summit,  and  disappears  over  the  crest  of  the  hill. 

As  he  passes  the  grey  wall  of  cliff,  whose  shattered 
buttresses  break  the  round  swell  of  the  valley,  a 
clamorous  party  of  dark  birds  emerge  from  their 
hiding-places  in  the  rocks.  They  are  choughs.  There 
is  little  to  identify  them  with  certainty  at  such  a  dis- 
tance; but  although  their  flight  suggests  that  of  the 
rook,  they  are  lighter  in  build,  and  their  clear,  emphatic 
cries  of  '  Kae,  kaej  are  quite  unlike  the  voices  of  any 
others  of  their  race.  They  settle  down  in  their  rocky 
haunts  again,  and  are  seen  no  more. 

The  path  has  reached  the  top  of  the  slope,  and  we 
stand  on  the  brink  of  a  mighty  hollow  in  the  moun- 
tains. 

It  is  a  wild  spot.  The  ground  has  been  torn  up  as 
by  a  waterspout.  Piles  of  shingle  and  boulders  alter- 
nate with  yawning  hollows  made  in  search  of  ore. 


His  Native  Heath.  159 

Here  a  headlong  torrent  is  brawling  in  its  rocky  bed. 
There  a  quiet  pool  mirrors  in  its  silver  face  its  fringe 
of  fern  and  sedges.  Here  a  patch  of  heather  or  a 
clump  of  asphodel  rises  like  a  small  green  island  in  a 
sea  of  ruin. 

It  was  not  always  thus  bare  and  desolate.  The 
broken  ground  reveals  the  stumps  of  gigantic  trees, 
hewn  down  long  ages  since,  and  covered  deep  with 
peat  and  shingle :  trees  whose  wide  arms  once  filled 
this  bleak  hollow  with  fair  green  waves  of  forest. 

The  pathway  gains  a  higher  level  still,  winding 
among  rocky  knolls  through  knee-deep  heather  that 
purples  all  the  hill. 

On  the  summit  of  a  grey  monolith  that  lifts  its 
mighty  head  above  a  sea  of  fern  there  sits  an  ouzel, 
presently  flying  off  to  higher  ground  with  ringing  call- 
note,  answered  by  a  comrade  in  the  distance. 

Far  up  against  the  sky,  just  clear  of  the  great  peak 
that  now  looks  down  into  the  valley,  floats  the  figure 
of  a  raven,  drifting  away  towards  some  white  object 
on  a  distant  ridge. 

The  pathway  brings  us  nearer.  It  is  the  body  of  a 
sheep,  from  which  three  sombre  figures  rise  reluctantly 
with  deep  and  sullen  croak  as  they  leave  for  a  space 
their  hapless  prey. 

There  are  more  traces  of  the  miners  now;  ruined 
cottages,  windowless,  roofless,  dismantled;  rude  fur- 
naces in  which  is  lying  still  the  half-roasted  ore,  cold 
this  many  a  day. 


160  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

Here,  too,  after  the  brief  interregnum  of  man's 
misrule,  re-asserts  itself  the  kindly  reign  of  Nature. 
Sweet  mountain-ferns  fringe  the  widening  crannies  of 
the  stonework.  Beech-ferns  cluster  about  the  feet  of 
idle  falls  that  turn  no  more  the  useless  wheels. 
Bright  stone-crops  gild  the  arches  of  long  empty 
aqueducts. 

But  over  all  there  is  a  sense  of  gloom  and  desolation, 
heightened  by  the  pallor  of  the  sunset  and  the  deepen- 
ing purple  of  the  hills. 

This  cavernous  tunnel  is  the  entrance  of  the  mine. 
Heaps  of  ore  are  piled  about  among  the  ruins.  Scraps 
of  rusted  ironwork  are  scattered  on  the  ground.  After 
groping  some  way  along  the  gallery,  whose  floor  is 
deep  in  mud  coloured  richly  by  water  that  has  oozed 
out  of  the  ore,  you  reach  an  air-shaft,  and  pause  a 
moment  to  look  round  you.  The  rock  is  stained  with 
warm  tones  of  red  and  orange  and  yellow.  Tiny 
ferns  have  found  footing  on  the  narrow  ledges.  Patches 
of  moss  mingle  their  soft  shades  of  green  with  the 
ruddy  colouring  of  the  rock. 

Suddenly  the  eye  catches  sight  of  a  bird  standing 
motionless  in  a  niche  in  the  side  of  the  air-shaft,  only 
a  few  feet  overhead.  It  is  a  chough.  Its  glossy  black 
plumage,  the  bright  red  of  its  legs  and  beak,  its  little 
canopy  of  tinted  rock,  make  a  charming  study — espe- 
cially to  the  naturalist  who  thus,  for  the  first  time, 
contemplates  at  his  leisure  the  features  of  this  rare  and 
graceful  bird  upon  its  native  heath. 


His  Native  Heath.  161 

Some  sound  at  last  disturbs  it  from  its  rest.  It 
flutters  up  the  shaft.  A  comrade,  hitherto  unseen, 
disturbed  by  the  sound  of  passing  wings,  flies  out 
from  higher  up,  and  with  a  chorus  of  excited  cries  they 
gain  the  open  hill 

They  are  gone.  It  is  but  a  brief  glimpse  that  we 
have  had  of  them.  We  might  easily  have  '  secured  a 
splendid  specimen.' 

Better  the  memory  of  the  twilight  in  the  hills ;  the 
well-remembered  picture  of  the  sleeping  birds,  the 
S'  land  of  its  unfamiliar  voice,  and  the  rush  of  its 
vanishing  wings,  than  the  possession  of  its  skin  mounted 
by  the  most  dexterous  hand — all  the  grace  gone  out 
of  it.  No  more  of-  the  free  life  of  the  hills  ;  no  more 
triumphant  flights  across  those  seas  of  purple  heather. 
Nothing  but  to  stand  for  ever  behind  the  glass  of  an 
ugly  bird-case  in  the  den  ot  a  musty  naturalist. 


A    WOODLAND    WALK. 

THE  fierce  winds  of  November  have  swept  away 
at  last  the  rich  autumn  foliage  that,  through 
the  long  Indian  summer,  lingered  so  late  upon  the 
trees. 

The  elms  that  cluster  in  the  sheltered  hollows  are 
indeed  still  draped  in  gay  attire,  and  shimmer  in  the 
sunlight  like  a  mist  of  gold.  And  the  tangle  of  the 
underwood,  which  wears  no  more  the  monotonous 
hue  of  summer,  is  picked  out  with  a  myriad  touches 
of  vivid  colour.  Tattered  sprays  of  elm  and  maple 
whose  every  leaf  is  turned  to  gold  still  cling  here 
and  there,  like  points  of  light,  among  dismantled 
boughs. 

But  the  green  veil  that  hid  so  long  the  mystery  of 
the  woodland  has  fallen,  and  the  eye  may  wander  at 
will  far  into  the  forest  sanctuaries. 

The  paths  are  covered  deep  with  scented  spoils 
that  rustle  with  each  passing  tread. 

At  times  the  wind,  sweeping  round  a  hollow  of  the 
road,  calls  from  their  rest  the  coloured  leaves  that, 


A   Woodland  Walk.  163 

whirled  up  in  sudden  eddy,  hurry  headlong  down  the 
path  like  the  phantom  dance  of  Pau-Puk-Keewis. 

And  when  for  a  brief  space  there  streams  through 
rifted  clouds  a  flood  of  sunshine  down  the  wooded 
slope,  then  all  at  once  the  pallid  greens  and  yellows 
on  the  heads  of  oak  and  elm,  all  the  bright  colours 
of  the  thickets,  glow  as  in  the  light  of  dawn.  The 
splendour  brightens  even  the  sombre  foliage  of  the 
firs  and  kindles  on  their  ruddy  branches  with  the 
sheen  of  gold. 

The  dwellers  in  the  woodland,  too,  the  light-hearted 
elves  that  chatter  in  the  tree-tops,  raise  their  voices 
above  the  rattle  of  the  boughs  and  the  rustle  of  dead 
leaves,  to  welcome  back  the  lost  glory  of  the  summer. 

A  creeper,  gliding  mouse-like  up  the  stem  of  a 
reeling  ash-tree,  searching  the  crevices  of  the  bark  for 
insects  as  he  goes,  puts  new  strength  into  his  feeble 
note. 

A  troop  of  coal-tits  start  a  ringing  measure  as  they 
swing  among  the  firs. 

An  oxeye,  too — a  smarter  fellow  than  his  sober- 
coated  cousins,  with  his  yellow  vest  and  black  facings 
• — chimes  in  with  his  musical  refrain,  and  for  a  minute 
or  two  the  merry  chorus  recalls  the  opening  days  of 
spring. 

High  up  in  an  elm-tree,  from  which  the  screen  of 
leaves  has  fallen  away,  is  a  woodpecker's  hole.  It  is 
long  since  the  little  family  climbed  out  into  the  world, 
and,  holding  on  tight  with  crooked  claws,  wandered 


1 64  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

among  the  branches  until  their  wings  were  strong  and 
they  gathered  courage  to  launch  out  upon  the  yielding 
air.  But  the  hollow  may  be  occupied  still  by  the  old 
birds,  for  here  in  the  heart  of  the  greenwood  starlings 
are  less  likely  to  have  taken  possession. 

Yonder  flying  figure  is  perhaps  one  of  the  tenants. 
He  is  coming  this  way.  After  a  few  quick  beats  of 
his  powerful  pinions  he  closes  his  wings  and  sweeps 
along  with  undulating  flight,  the  last  wave  of  which 
brings  him  up  to  the  stem  of  an  old  elm,  where  for  a 
moment  he  clings,  silent  and  watchful,  ere  he  begins 
to  beat  the  covers  of  what  is  no  doubt  a  familiar 
hunting-ground ;  for  sheets  of  bark  stripped  off  and 
ragged  holes  in  the  wood  show  that  this  is  by  no 
means  his  first  visit  to  the  place. 

How  still  he  is  !  That,  indeed,  is  the  first  rule  of 
woodcraft,  as  every  naturalist  has  to  learn.  It  is  little 
that  he  will  see  of  life  in  the  greenwood  who  cannot 
in  that  respect  copy  the  children  of  the  forest. 

The  path  gains  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  winds 
down  the  farther  slope  between  lines  of  noble  trees, 
whose  dishevelled  tresses  strew  the  stony  way.  A 
few  bright  leaves  still  cling  about  the  Spanish  chestnut 
boughs,  and  flicker  in  the  wind  like  flames. 

On  a  branch  that  leans  out  over  the  path  crouches 
a  squirrel,  watching  you  with  all  his  eyes.  He  wears 
his  winter  coat,  warmer  and  thicker  than  his  summer 
dress,  with  an  added  dash  of  grey  in  it,  and  with  long 
tufts  upon  his  pointed  ears. 


A   Woodland  Walk.  165 

There  is  slight  cover  for  him  now  among  the  rock- 
ing tops,  but  he  is  a  master  of  woodcraft,  and,  like  the 
woodpecker,  knows  well  that  cardinal  rule  of  keeping 
cool  and  quiet.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  you  may  pass 
him  by  unnoticed,  although  the  bright  black  eyes  may 
be  but  a  few  feet  overhead.  He  is  often  discovered 
more  by  sound  than  sight ;  for  if  you  keep  still  for  a 
few  minutes  in  the  wood  you  may  often  hear  the 
noise  of  the  fir-cone  chips  that  he  drops  from  his 
dinner-table;  and  by  following  the  sound  you  may  at 
last  distinguish  among  the  branches  his  bushy  tail  and 
his  rich  brown  coat. 

He  may  take  fright  if  you  approach  too  near,  and, 
scurrying  up  the  trunk,  will  pause  perhaps  on  a  higher 
level  to  stamp  his  little  feet  or  bark  with  comical 
gestures  of  indignation  at  your  intrusion  on  his  privacy. 
Then  from  bough  to  bough  he  leaps,  with  marvellous 
ease  and  grace,  disappearing  at  last  in  his  snug  home 
in  the  depths  of  a  sheltering  fir. 

Seen  from  below,  his  nest  might  well  pass  for  that 
of  a  magpie,  but  it  is  built  more  of  moss  than  of 
sticks,  and  sometimes  seems  to  have  no  visible  entrance 
whatever. 

Here  for  more  than  half  the  year  the  young  squirrels 
stay  with  their  parents,  until  the  time  when  they  have 
gained  sufficient  confidence  to  set  up  housekeeping 
for  themselves. 

The  squirrel  is  a  vegetarian  as  a  general  rule,  but 
was  observed  by  Darwin  to  feed  on  the  grubs  of  oak- 


1 66  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

galls ;  and  there  is  strong  evidence  that  he  is  a  poacher 
on  occasion,  devouring  not  only  eggs,  but  young 
birds. 

Somewhere  in  the  rift  of  an  old  stump,  or  in  a  little 
cave  among  the  twisted  roots  of  some  tall  beech-tree, 
he  has  his  stock  of  acorns  laid  up  against  the  hard 
times  coming  on. 

Not  only  do  mice  and  squirrels  hoard  in  this  way 
their  nuts  and  beech-mast,  but  even  moles  are  said  to 
provide  against  the  difficulties  of  a  frosty  season  by 
storing  earthworms  in  a  hollow  in  the  ground. 

A  stone  near  the  squirrel's  tree  is  strewn  with 
broken  shells,  but  that  is  not  his  work.  His  traces 
lie  about  in  plenty  on  the  ground  in  the  shape  of 
gnawed  fir-cones.  No,  this  great  flat  stone,  sunk  deep 
among  the  moss  and  leaves,  is  a  sort  of  stone  of  sacrifice 
where  all  the  thrushes  of  this  corner  of  the  wood  bring 
snails,  to  crack  them  for  their  dinners. 

You  may  often  hear  the  '  tap,  tap '  among  the 
bushes.  Not  the  sound  of  striking  wood ;  no  wood- 
pecker or  tit,  nothing  like  it ;  but  a  sound  that  finishes 
with  a  crash,  and  is  followed  by  a  moment  of  silence, 
as  the  bird  swallows  the  kernel,  so  to  speak,  of  his 
plunder. 

Still  lower  winds  the  pathway.  And  now,  above 
the  deep  voice  of  the  pine-trees  comes  another  sound 
— a  sound  that  rises  no  higher  as  the  wind  blows 
hard,  nor  pauses  in  the  intervals  of  calm. 

It  is  the  murmur  of  the  sea.     Now  through  the 


A   Woodland  Walk.  167 

leafless  branches  come  glimpses  of  the  bay :  the  long 
sweep  of  yellow  sand,  the  low  promontory  with  its 
skirts  of  black  and  broken  rocks,  the  rugged  sand- 
hills covered  thick  with  tall,  grey  sedges,  the  wander- 
ing line  of  the  old  sea-wall,  and  the  green  levels  of  the 
moor. 

The  tide  is  out.  Over  the  wide  mud-flats,  brown 
by  the  brink  of  the  angry  sea,  tinged  with  purple 
nearer  in,  and  lighted  here  and  there  by  steel-like 
gleams  of  water  left  in  the  long  hollows,  wander  troops 
of  waders.  Even  at  this  distance  one  can  distinguish 
the  long  bill  of  the  curlew;  the  black  and  white 
plumage  of  the  oysuer-catcher.  Gulls  driven  ashore 
by  the  rough  weather  are  scattered  in  hundreds  over 
the  mud  ;  some  of  them  are  even  foraging  like  rooks 
in  the  meadows  of  the  moor. 

Out  on  the  rough  water,  their  dark  figures  rising 
now  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  now  hidden  altogether  by 
the  swell,  ride  a  fleet  of  scaup  ducks.  Winter  visitors 
they  are,  from  the  far  and  frozen  North.  They  are 
splendid  fellows,  with  their  dresses  half  of  glossy 
black,  half  of  pencilled  grey,  but  so  shy  and  so  well 
acquainted  with  the  speed  of  a  boat  and  the  range  of 
a  fowling-piece  that  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  get  near 
enough  to  see  them  well. 

Round  the  grey  tower  of  the  little  church  under  the 
hill  cluster  the  white  cottages  of  a  straggling  hamlet, 
once,  as  its  name  implies,  a  place  of  boats. 

A  flight  of  rude  stone  steps  crossing  the  footpath 


X58  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

farther  on  led  from  the  little  port  up  the  steep  brow 
to  the  great  stronghold  whose  ruined  walls  and  moss- 
grown  outworks  wander  far  among  the  thickets  of  the 
hill. 

It  is  a  fortress  such  as  crown  so  many  of  the  heights 
of  Mendip,  guarding  the  long  line  of  road  from  the 
distant  lead-mines  to  the  sea. 

Among  this  tangled  underwood  the  eye  may  still 
discover  the  pit-dwellings  of  the  old  inhabitants,  who 
perished  when  Ceawlin  stormed  these  border  strong- 
holds, may  discern  among  the  charred  remains  of 
their  ruined  homes  some  relics  of  the  vanquished — 
here  a  rusted  spear-head,  there  a  hoard  of  blackened 
corn ;  now  a  bead  of  quaint  device,  perhaps  even  a 
Phoenician  ring. 

Here,  too,  beneath  broad  arms  of  bracken  buried 
deep,  have  been  found  the  grim  memorials  of  desperate 
fray — bones  of  forgotten  heroes,  scarred  with  sword 
and  war-axe,  lying  where  they  fell,  above  their  burnt 
and  plundered  hearths. 

It  was  the  debateable  country,  the  border-line 
between  the  races,  and  in  all  the  country-side  there 
is  no  hilltop  but  has  its  lines  of  earthworks,  its 
legends  of  old  fight,  its  barrows  of  the  unremembered 
dead. 


WHEN    THE    WIND    BLOWETH    IN    FROM 
THE    SEA. 


THE  strong  winds  that  swept  the  lingering  beauty 
from  the  woods  still  sway  the  branches.  Day 
after  day  the  storm-signal  swings  from  the  white  staff 
on  the  hill.  Day  after  day  comes  in  an  angry  sea, 
strewing  fresh  heaps  of  weed  along  the  shining  sands, 
and  tearing  new  gaps  in  the  coastguard  path  that, 
marked  by  heaps  of  whitened  stones,  wanders  along 
the  brink  of  the  crumbling  cliff.  Day  after  day,  about 
the  lonely  cottages  nestling  close  under  the  steep  shore 
of  the  cove,  the  air  is  filled  with  flying  foam,  the  white 
wings  of  sea-birds,  and  the  thunder  of  the  surge. 


170  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

To  the  watcher  looking  seaward  there  seems  at 
times  to  come  a  lull  in  the  mad  plunge  of  the  landward 
rushing  breakers. 

Then  far  out  there  rises  a  great  green  billow  that 
rolls  in  under  the  shore ;  pauses  a  moment  as  if  to 
measure  its  might  against  the  calm  brows  of  the  cliff 
that  looks  down  unmoved  on  all  the  tumult ;  then  hurls 
itself  at  the  land,  leaping  far  up  the  steep,  in  clouds  of 
spray,  and,  falling  back,  melts  into  a  hundred  tiny 
rivulets  that  silver  with  their  white  tongues  all  the  dark 
crannies  of  the  rock. 

What  a  hungry  sound  there  is  in  the  rush  of  the 
foam,  as  the  fierce  waves  thunder  up  the  shingle  !  With 
what  a  rattle  and  a  roar  of  pebbles  each  wave,  after 
spreading  out  in  a  smooth  and  creamy  flood,  draws 
back  before  returning  to  the  charge  ! 

On  the  right  of  the  cove  are  heaped  high  wild 
masses  of  serpentine,  divided  in  some  cases  by  straits 
so  narrow  that  it  seems  a  light  thing  to  leap  across  ; 
but  more  than  one  adventurer  has  missed  his  footing 
on  the  slippery  verge,  and  perished  in  the  boiling  surf 
of  that  cruel  chasm. 

The  warm  red  colouring  of  the  rock  is  relieved  by  a 
hundred  touches  of  scanty  vegetation — patches  of 
thrift  and  stains  of  lichen,  and  varied  by  mazy  lines  of 
white  stone  that  wander  through  the  heart  of  the  rock. 

Far  away  to  the  left  sweeps  the  broken  coast  line, 
range  after  range  of  dark,  stern  headlands,  and  then, 
running  a  long  way  out  to  sea,  is  a  chain  of  reefs  over 


When  the  Wind  bloweth  in  from  the  Sea.    171 

which  there  leap  every  now  and  then  white  sheets  of 
spray. 

And  all  across  the  restless  water,  grey  on  the  sea- 
line,  blue  in  the  nearer  distance,  then  pale  green,  with 
bands  of  purple  over  beds  of  weed,  '  The  wild  white 
horses  foam  and  fret.' 

As  the  tide  goes  down,  the  narrow  strip  of  hard, 
bright  sand  that  fringes  the  bay  and  wanders  among 
the  outlying  piles  of  rock,  is  strewn  with  spoils  from 
the  dark  forests  of  the  sea — strong,  pliant  stems  of 
kelp  with  waving  fronds  of  deep  olive,  their  twisted 
roots  still  wrapped  close  about  the  sea-worn  stones 
they  have  brought  up  from  their  lost  moorings,  bright 
ocean  weeds  of  green  and  crimson,  lying  like  patches 
of  vivid  colour  among  the  pebbles. 

Here,  a  score  of  painted  shells  have  been  stranded 
in  a  crevice,  and  not  yet  beaten  into  fragments  on  the 
stones. 

There,  has  floated  in  the  broad  white  '  bone '  of  a 
cuttle-fish,  its  fragile  shape  hardly  injured  by  its  stormy 
voyage.  A  few  holes  in  its  underside  show  where 
some  sea-bird  has  made  trial  of  its  soft  substance  and 
left  it,  disgusted  at  its  dryness. 

A  couple  of  turnstones,  smart  little  birds  in  brown, 
with  bright  red  legs  and  beak,  are  busy  on  a  heap  of 
kelp  over  some  treasure-trove  that  the  sea  has  left  for 
them. 

Very  pretty  they  look  against  the  dark  background 
of  the  weed,  but  perhaps  even  prettier  is  the  rich  violet 


172  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

colouring  of  the  shells  they  have  been  breaking  on  the 
pebbles.  No  natives  of  the  coast  are  these.  They 
are  waifs  from  the  Atlantic,  argonauts  drifted  by  the 
long-continued  gales  far  from  their  ocean  rest,  and 
stranded  here  on  this  unfriendly  shore. 

In  their  home  in  mid-ocean  they  live  chiefly  at  the 
surface,  buoyed  up  by  a  kind  of  raft.  This  raft,  which 
is  among  the  most  wonderful  of  natural  objects,  con- 
sists of  a  membrane  extending  from  the  mouth  of  the 
shell,  like  an  unusual  development  of  the  little  valve 
that  closes  so  tightly  on  the  domestic  arrangements  of 
the  periwinkle.  On  the  underside  of  the  raft  hang,  in 
a  sort  of  fringe,  the  creature's  eggs,  which  remain  there 
until  they  are  hatched. 

This  lanthina  is  a  singularly  helpless  sailor.  It  has 
little  control  over  its  movements ;  it  is  without  the 
power  of  sight ;  it  drifts  aimlessly  at  the  mercy  of  the 
waves. 

But  not  only  does  the  stormy  weather  strew  the  sand 
with  weeds  and  shells  ;  it  drives  the  sea-birds  to  seek 
shelter  by  the  shore. 

The  ledges  of  the  cliffs,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
are  white  with  gulls,  whose  snowy  plumage  rivals  the 
very  foam  which  some  higher  wave  than  usual  scatters 
over  their  ranks. 

Less  noticeable  are  the  sombre  cormorants  that, 
sheltering  in  deep  niches  round  the  sounding  caverns 
under  the  cliff,  are  darker  even  than  the  dark  rock  that 
leans  out  over  their  heads. 


When  the  Wind  bloweth  in  from  the  Sea,    173 

All  the  air  meanwhile  is  crowded  with  flying  gulls, 
beating  up  against  the  wind — now  hovering  above  some 
waif  floating  in  the  water ;  now  swooping  down  to  dip 
the  surface ;  now  rising  with  a  fish  that  shows  a 
moment  as  a  gleam  of  silver  in  its  captor's  beak. 

It  is  a  mingled  crew  that  fights  its  way  against  the 
gale.  These,  by  their  slight  figures  and  their  delicate 
garb  of  white  and  lavender,  are  kittiwakes. 

Yonder  great  bird  in  brown  is  a  herring-gull  :  not 
until  his  fifth  year  will  he  change  his  youthful  dress  for 
perfect  plumage. 

Here  comes  a  black-headed  gull :  not  black-headed 
now,  and  wearing  but  a  single  spot  of  that  neat  dark 
hood  that  will  appear  all  at  once  in  the  spring. 

He  is  struggling  hard  against  the  wind.  Now  he 
hangs  motionless  a  moment ;  now  he  sails  in  swift  and 
graceful  curves  across  the  wind  ;  now  he  dips  towards 
the  water,  followed  in  an  instant  by  a  score  of  eager 
screaming  comrades. 

Now  he  gives  in  to  the  gale,  and  in  a  moment  is 
swept  a  hundred  yards  down  the  wind.  But,  undis- 
mayed, he  still  holds  on,  and  before  long  has  fought 
his  way  in  shore  again,  and  now  settles  down  on  one 
of  the  crowded  ledges,  whose  tenants  greet  the  new- 
comer with  a  sort  of  querulous  chorus. 

Now  a  herring-gull  drifts  over,  a  full-grown  bird  this 
time,  so  near  that  we  can  see  not  only  the  spotless 
purity  of  his  breast  and  the  black  tips  of  his  wings,  but 
the  white  of  his  keen  eyes  and  the  red  stain  upon  his 


174  Idylls  °f 

yellow  bill.  He  turns  his  smooth  head  this  way  and 
that,  keeping  sharp  look-out  on  the  seething  water; 
his  whole  frame  quivers  with  the  heats  of  his  strong 
wings.  He  pauses  a  moment  just  overhead,  and  then, 
falling  back,  he  too  is  swept  unresistingly  away. 

Some  forty  yards  from  shore,  now  skimming  the 
rough  crest  of  a  breaker,  now  lost  in  the  trough  of  a 
wave,  and  evidently  quite  in  his  element  in  this  war  of 
waters,  is  a  much  less  familiar  figure  than  herring-gull 
or  kittiwake — a  little  dark  bird  whose  flight  and  figure 
are  suggestive  of  a  swallow. 

It  is  a  stormy  petrel,  a  real  sea-rover,  whose  whole 
existence,  except  for  the  brief  space  of  the  breeding 
season,  is  spent  out  of  sight  of  land.  At  other  times, 
only  a  long  spell  of  rough  weather  brings  it  off  the  sea. 

Modern  science  has  dispelled  the  mist  of  fable  that 
so  long  obscured  the  life-history  of  this  little  bird.  No 
longer  is  it  looked  upon  as  a  herald  of  the  storm  ; 
probably  not  even  in  a  forecastle  yarn  is  it  said  to 
hatch  its  eggs  under  its  wings. 

There  are  many  spots  round  the  coast,  especially  in 
the  north,  and  in  outlying  islands,  where  in  the  early 
summer  the  petrel  comes  ashore  to  lay,  in  a  crevice  in 
the  rock,  or  in  a  burrow  in  the  sand,  her  one  large  egg ; 
but  as  she  is  nocturnal  in  her  habits,  leaving  her  nest 
only  when  other  birds  retire  to  roost,  she  is  even  then 
but  seldom  seen. 

Were  there  any  truth  in  the  weird  legend  which  sees 
in  the  stormy  petrel  the  wandering  spirit  of  some 


When  the  Wind  bloweth  in  from  the  Sea.    175 

drowned  mariner,  the  bird  well  might  haunt  this  fatal 
shore.  Every  reef  has  its  record  of  disaster ;  ever)' 
headland  its  tale  of  wreck  and  ruin. 

Beyond  the  twin  towers,  that  send  their  white  shafts 
of  light  far  out  over  the  surge,  stretch  long  lines  of 
nameless  graves. 

Still,  on  the  beach  to  northward  there  shine  at  times 
among  the  shingle,  after  heavy  gales,  the  sea-worn 
dollars  from  a  Spanish  treasure-ship  whose  freight  of 
silver  rests  beneath  the  sand. 

The  fishermen  still  hear  in  fancy,  in  the  pauses  of 
the  storm,  the  crash  of  timbers,  and  the  shrill  despair- 
ing wail,  where,  long  years  ago,  a  great  transport  sank 
with  all  her  crew. 

There  is  no  winter  but  adds,  something  to  the 
record ;  hardly  a  tide  but  drifts  into  these 

'  Sheltered  coves  and  reaches 
Of  sandy  beaches,' 

some  message  from  the  sea. 


THE    BIRD    OF    YULE. 


•• 


HRISTMAS  in  the  olden  time  has  ever 
been  a  favourite  theme  with  the  poet  and 
the  painter  ;  but,  like  many  another  ideal  of  the  good 


The  Bird  of  Yule.  177 

old  days,  much  of  its  merit  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
shadowy  and  unreal,  and  comes  down  to  us 

1  Magnified  by  the  purple  mist, 
The  dusk  of  centuries  and  of  song.' 

The  Christmas  of  our  day,  if  it  has  in  it  less  of 
revelry,  has  gained  by  what  is  lost,  and  is  honoured  in 
a  better,  calmer  spirit  than  in  Yules  of  bygone  years. 

The  very  festival  is  other  than  it  was  ;  other  viands 
are  chosen  for  the  banquet.  The  boar's  head  that  we 
so  often  associate  with  the  Christmas  of  our  fathers 
went  out  with  the  Long  Parliament.  The  crane  and 
the  bittern  are  found  no  longer  on  the  Royal  table. 
No  directions  for  the  treatment  of  a  swan  or  a  heron 
occur  in  modern  cookery  books. 

This  has  not  been  entirely  an  affair  of  taste. 
Various  causes  have  contributed  to  bring  about  the 
change. 

By  the  time  that  Yule-tide  revels  were  revived  after 
the  Commonwealth,  the  wild-boar  had  disappeared 
from  the  forests. 

Of  the  birds  whose  names  are  common  in  the 
ancient  bills  of  fare  most  have  left  the  country. 

Driven  from  the  island  by  the  destruction  of  their 
ancient  haunts,  they  visit  us  now  so  seldom,  that  their 
coming  is  to  the  ornithologist  a  matter  of  mark  beyond 
the  politics  of  Europe. 

Six  centuries  ago  cranes  built  their  rude  nests  by 
hundreds  among  the  reed-forests  of  the  Fens,  and  the 


178  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

bird  long  formed  a  Christmas  dish  on  the  table  of  the 
Sovereign. 

Three  hundred  years  later  there  was  still  a  statute  for 
the  protection  of  its  eggs,  but  since  that  time,  as  mere 
and  marshland  have  been  drained  and  tilled,  the  crane 
has  retired  before  the  conquering  share. 

Now,  like  the  great  bustard— the  story  of  whose 
banishment  is  of  much  later  date — it  is  an  exile  and  a 
stranger. 

Of  other  birds  that  found  favour  in  Tudor  times,  the 
heron  and  the  swan  still  hold  their  ground.  The 
latter,  now  only  a  visitor,  has  long  ceased  to  make  its 
nest  with  us,  but  its  flying  visits  are  neither  few  nor  far 
between. 

The  former  is  a  resident  still ;  more  than  a  hundred 
heronries  remain  scattered  up  and  down  in  England, 
and  there  are  few  low-lying  shores  where  herons  do  not 
stalk  in  stately  fashion  by  the  falling  tide  like  the 
ghosts  of  vanished  friars. 

The  swan  is  seldom  killed  for  the  table — less  per- 
haps from  its  demerits  than  its  rarity. 

The  heron,  on  the  other  hand,  except  when  young, 
and  doctored  with  powerful  condiments,  has  a  rank 
and  fishy  flavour,  and  its  disuse  as  an  article  of  diet 
and  its  removal  from  the  game  list  must  be  regarded 
as  marking  an  improvement  in  the  national  taste. 

The  bird  of  Yule  of  our  time  has  no  such  history  to 
look  back  on.  Somewhere  about  the  middle  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  while  the  crane  and  the  bustard  were 


The  Bird  of  Yule.  179 

still  taken  for  the  Royal  table,  the  turkey  began  to 
supplant  our  native  wildfowl,  and  rapidly  acquired 
almost  a  monopoly  of  popular  favour. 

The  actual  time  of  its  first  importation  is  involved 
in  obscurity.  Its  very  name  shows  how  little  was 
known  of  its  origin. 

Thus  much  is  clear.  The  turkey  was  brought  from 
North  America  by  Spanish  explorers.  From  Spain — 
then  in  constant  communication  with  England — it 
made  its  way  into  this  country,  and  caught  the  popular 
fancy  like  the  fragrant  weed  railed  on  in  the  Royal 
1  Counterblast.' 

A  writer  of  the  time  of  James  I.  remarks  that  '  those 
outlandish  birds  called  Ginny  cocks  and  Turkey  cocks ' 
were  not  seen  in  England  before  1530.  Hakluyt,  too, 
writing  near  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  speaks 
of  the  turkey  as  having  been  known  i&  this  country  for 
fifty  years. 

It  is  also  clear  that  the  epithet  turkey  was  at  first 
applied  indiscriminately  to  this  bird  and  to  the  guinea- 
fowl,  which  reached  England  about  the  same  time  by 
way  of  Levantine  ports. 

The  confusion  between  the  two  birds  is  well  illus- 
trated by  a  passage  in  an  old  Spanish  dictionary,  where 
gallipavo  is  defined  as  'a  turkey  or  guinea  cock  or 
hen.' 

The  tame  turkey  of  America  was  probably  a  re- 
importation from  Europe.  The  original  wild  species, 
which  still  inhabits  the  whole  continent  east  of  the 

12 — 2 


i8o  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

Rocky  Mountains,  from  Panama  to  the  north  of 
Canada,  far  surpasses  the  domestic  breed  both  in  size 
and  in  the  beauty  of  its  plumage.  Audubon  writes  of 
wild  turkeys  of  thirty  and  forty,  and  even  alludes, 
though  somewhat  doubtfully,  to  a  monster  of  sixty 
pounds'  weight. 

The  weight  of  the  famous  bird  which  Scrooge  de- 
clared would  need  a  cab  to  carry  it  to  Camden  Town 
is  not  stated  in  pounds.  Perhaps  it  is  merely  a 
question  of  resistance  of  material  to  find  how  much  it 
would  take  to  snap  a  bird's  legs  '  off  short  like  sticks  of 
sealing-wax.' 

The  festival  in  which  the  penitent  figure  of  Dickens's 
pleasant  story  played  so  prominent  a  part  is  honoured 
again  to-day  by  all  sorts  of  men  under  all  sorts  of  con- 
ditions. 

In  lonely  outposts  high  up  among  Himalayan  snows, 
on  the  wild  waves  of  distant  seas,  on  the  fringe  of  the 
New  Zealand  bush,  under  the  fierce  Australian  sun, 
men  to-day  will  lay  aside  for  a  brief  space  the  thought 
of  danger  and  the  race  for  wealth,  to  dream  of  home, 
and  kin,  and  far-off  firesides  that  for  them  may  never 
brighten  more. 

In  many  a  jovial  circle  here  at  home  will  be  read 
and  re-read  the  ever-welcome  story  of  those  midnight 
visitors,  that  to  the  reluctant  Scrooge  played  the  part 
of  ministering  angels. 

Never  was  the  touch  of  the  master  brighter  or  better 


The  Bird  of  Yule.  181 

than  in  his  pictures  of  song,  and  mirth,  and  revelry, 
round  the  branches  of  the  Christmas  Tree. 

And  the  pathos  of  his  tender  story  may  well  soften 
our  hearts  as  we  watch  the  red  tongues  leaping  high 
about  the  logs  of  Yule.  It  was  a  pleasant  fancy  that 
all  jealousy  and  mistrust,  and  memory  of  bitter  words 
passed  in  the  flames  of  the  Christmas  fire. 

There  is  ever  a  vein  of  sadness  in  the  midst  ot 
mirth.  In  many  an  eye  a  mist  will  gather  in  thinking 
of  the  vacant  chair  : 

'  A  narrowing  circle,  year  by  year, 

Draws  round  the  hearth  on  Christmas  Day. 

Ah  me  !  for  faces  kind  and  dear, 

Dispersed  through  regions  far  away, 

Or  passed  unto  that  shadowy  shore 

Whence  never  echo  travels  o'er.' 

These  are  hard  times.  In  many  a  dark  and  desolate 
home  there  will  be  no  Christmas  cheer,  no  roaring  log, 
no  lighted  tree.  And  among  the  happy  and  light- 
hearted  who  gather  round  the  board  to  commemorate 
this,  the  fairest  day  that  ever  dawned  on  suffering,  sad 
humanity,  those  who  out  of  the  fulness  of  their  festal 
cheer  can  feel  that  they  have  lighted  the  cold  hearth 
and  gladdened  the  heavy  heart  of  one  single  sorrowful, 
struggling  fellow-mortal,  will  find  their  own  joy  the 
sweeter,  and  their  roaring  Yule  log  brighter  still,  for 
thinking  of  the  outcast  and  the  orphan,  for  the  hand 
held  out  to  the  widow  and  the  fatherless ;  and  though 


182  Idylls  of  the  Field. 

for  us  no  guiding  star  lights  up  the  winter  midnight, 
still  there  sounds  for  all  the  message  of  the  angels — 

'  Oh,  brother,  wouldst  thou  hear  the  strain  ? 

Let  go  the  lust  of  gold  ; 
Let  go  the  passions  fierce  and  vain  ; 

Let  go  the  sins  of  old. 
Thine  eyes  shall  see,  thine  ears  shall  hear, 
God  and  His  angels  hovering  near.' 


THE  END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-37w-3,'57(C5424s4)444 


QH 
81 


